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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



The LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 



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COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY 

PAUL ELDER & CO. 

SAN FRANCISCO 



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CI.A410217 



AUG 24 1915 



TO OUR MOTHER 



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.5 ST 



COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY 

PAUL ELDER & CO. 

SAN FRANCISCO 



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CI.A410217 



AUG 24 1915 



TO OUR MOTHER 



PREFACE 

The average visitor considers California's 
claim to historic recognition as dating from 
the discovery of gold. Her children, both by 
birth and adoption, have a hazy pride in her 
Spanish origin but are too busy with today's 
interests to take much thought of it. They 
know that somewhere over in the Mission is 
the old adobe church. They rejoice that it 
escaped the fire but have no time to visit it. 
They will proudly tell their eastern friends 
of its existence and that the Presidio received 
its name from the Spaniards but further nar- 
ration of the heritage is lost in exclamations 
over the beauty of the drives and the views, 
while the historic significance of Portsmouth 
Square is smothered in the delight over Chi- 
nese embroideries, bronzes and cloisonne. 

May this little book aid in the general 
awaking of the dormant love of every Cali- 
fornian for his possessions and be a sugges- 
tion to the casual visitor that we are entitled 
to the dignity of age. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

PEEFACE v 

THE MISSION AND ITS EOMANCE 3 

A VIEW PROM TWIN PEAKS THE CITY WITH ITS 

HISTORIC CROSSES. A VISIT TO THE OLD CHURCH 
— ITS PAST, AND THE ROMANCE OF LUIS ARGUELLO. 

THE PBESLDIO, PAST AND PEESENT .... 35 

THE SPANISH FORTIFICATIONS AND THE LOVE STORY 
OF CONCEPCION AND REZANOV. 

THE PLAZA AND ITS ECHOES 53 

A CHINESE RESTAURANT. YERBA BUENA AND THE 
REMINISCENCES OF A FORTY-NINER. 

TELEGEAPH HILL OF UNIQUE FAME .... 83 

THE LATIN QUARTER. THE SIGNAL STATION OF '49 
AND A VIEW OF THE CITY AS IT WAS. THE GOLDEN 
GATE. 



[VII] 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 
PAGE 

The Mission Frontispiece 

"The modem structures crowd upon the low adobe 

building." 
Prayer Book Cross 8 

"A granite cross just visible above the trees in 

Golden Gate Park." 
At Lotta's Fountain 26 

"We watched the people purchasing flowers on the 

corner." 
The Officers' Club House at the Presidio ... 40 

"Of a different generation from its neighbors." 
A Street in Chinatown 58 

"We must take a look at the spot where the first 

house stood." 
Portsmouth Square 64 

"The entire history of San Francisco was made 

around this Plaza." 
A Fountain in the Latin Quarter 86 

"Stooping to drink from his hand on the edge of 

a little pool." 
A Sunset Thro' the Golden Gate 92 

"The last rays gilded the cliffs on either side." 



[«] 



THE MISSION 



A VIEW FROM TWIN PEAKS THE 

CITY WITH ITS HISTORIC CROSSES. A VISIT TO THE OLD 

CHURCH ITS PAST, AND THE ROMANCE 

OF LUIS ARGUELLO 




THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 

ickets to the city, Sir?" The con- 
ductor's voice sounded above 
the rumble of the train. As my 
companion's hand went to his 
pocket he glanced at me with a 
quizzical smile. 

"I should think you Oakland- 
ers would resent that. Hasn't 
your town put on long skirts since the fire?" 
There was an unpleasant emphasis on the last 
phrase, but I passed it over unnoticed. 

"Of course we have grown up," I assured 
him. "We're a big flourishing city, but we are 
not the city. San Francisco always has been, 
and always will be the city to all northern 
California; it was so called in the days of 
forty-nine and we still cling affectionately to 
the term." 

"I believe you Californians have but two 
dates on your calendar," he exclaimed, "for 
everything I mention seems to have happened 
either 'before the fire' or 'in the good old 
days of forty-nine!' 'Good old days of forty- 
nine,' " he repeated, amused. "In Boston we 
date back to the Revolution, and 'in Colonial 
times' is a common expression. We have 
buildings a hundred years old, but if you have 
a structure that has lasted a decade, it is a 
paragon and pointed out as built 'before the 
fire.' Do you remember the pilgrimage we 
made to the historic shrines of Boston, just a 
year ago?" 

[3] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 

"Shall I ever forget it!" I exclaimed. 
He smiled appreciatively. "Faneuil Hall 
and the old State House are interesting." 

"Oh, I wasn't thinking about the buildings! 
I don't even recall how they look. But I do 
remember the weather. I was so cold I 
couldn't even speak." 

"Impossible!" he cried, "you not able to 
talk!" 

"But it's true! My cheeks were frozen 
stiff. I wore a thick dress, a sweater, a heavy 
coat and my furs, and still I was cold while 
all the time I was thinking that the fruit trees 
and wild flowers were in blossom in Califor- 
nia. If it hadn't been for the symphony con- 
certs and the opera, I never could have en- 
dured an Eastern winter." 

"A fine compliment to me when I spent 
days taking you to points of historic interest." 
I sent him an appreciative glance. "It was 
good of you," I acknowledged, "and do you 
remember that I promised to take you on 
a similar pilgrimage when you came to San 
Francisco ?" 

He laughed. "And I was foolish enough 
to believe you, since I had never been to the 
Pacific Coast." 

The train came to a stop in the Ferry 
Building and we followed the other passen- 
gers onto the boat. "San Francisco is mod- 
ern to the core," he continued. "Boston dates 
back generations, but you have hardly ac- 
quired your three score years and ten." 

[4] " 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 

"If you don't like fine progressive cities, 
why did you come to California ?" His fault- 
finding with San Francisco hurt me as if it 
had been a personal criticism. 

"You know why I came," he said gently, 
with his eyes on my face. 

I felt the blood creeping to my cheeks and 
turned quickly to look for an out-of-doors 
seat. In the crowd we were jostled by a little 
slant-eyed man of the Orient, resplendent in 
baggy blue silk trousers tied neatly at the 
ankles and a loose coat lined with lavender, 
whose flowing sleeves half concealed his slen- 
der brown hands. 

"There's a man who has centuries at his 
back." My companion's eyes traveled from 
the soft padded shoes to the little red button 
on the top of the black skull cap. "Even his 
costume is the same as his forefathers'." 

"If you are interested in the Chinese, I'll 
show you Oriental San Francisco. It lies in 
the heart of the city and its very atmosphere 
is saturated with Eastern customs. It is much 
more sanitary but not as picturesque as it was 
before the fire." I flushed as I saw his amuse- 
ment, and quickly called his attention to the 
receding shores where the encircling green 
hills had thrown out long banners of yellow 
mustard and blue lupins. To the right was 
Mt. Tamalpais, a sturdy sentinel looking out 
to the ocean, its summit pressed against the 
sky's blue canopy and its base lost in a net- 
work of purple forests. In front of the Golden 

[5] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
Gate was Alcatraz Island, like a huge disman- 
tled warship, guarding the entrance to the 
bay, and before us, San Francisco rested upon 
undulating hills, its tall buildings piercing the 
sky at irregular intervals. We made our way 
to the forward deck in order to have the full 
sweep of the waterfront. 

"You should see it at night!" I said, "it is 
a marvelous tiara. The red and green lights 
on these wharves close to the water's edge 
are the rubies and emeralds, while above, 
sweeping the hills, the lights of the residences 
sparkle like rows and rows of diamonds." 

A crowd of passengers surged around us 
as the boat poked its nose into the slip. 
"There was nothing left of this part of the 
city but a fringe of wharves, after the fire." 
I bit the last word in two, for it was evident 
the expression was getting on his nerves. I 
was thankful that the clanging chains of the 
descending gang plank and the tramp of 
many feet made further conversation impos- 
sible. 

"Hurry," he urged, "there's the Exposition 
car." We were in front of the Ferry Build- 
ing and the crowd was jostling us in every 
direction. 

"You surely are not going to the Exposi- 
tion!" I exclaimed in mock surprise. 

"Of course I am. Where else should we 
go?" 

"But, my dear Antiquary, those buildings 
are only a few months old!" 

[6] 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 

He laughed good naturedly. "It ought to 
suit you Westerners, anyway," he retaliated. 
Then taking my arm, "Let us hurry! Look, 
the car is starting!" 

"I am going to take the one behind," I an- 
nounced. "There must be something old in 
San Francisco and I am going to find it." 

"You'll have a long hunt," rejoined the 
skeptic, and with his eyes still on the tail of 
the disappearing Exposition car, he reluc- 
tantly followed me. 

"Lots of strangers in San Francisco for the 
Fair," he remarked, as from the car window 
he watched the big turban of a Hindoo bob- 
bing among the crowd on the sidewalk; then 
his eyes wandered to a Japanese arrayed in a 
new suit of American clothes and finally 
rested on a bright yellow lei wound about the 
hat of a swarthy Hawaiian. I smiled as I 
nodded to the Japanese who had worked in 
my kitchen for three years, and recognized in 
the dusky Hawaiian one of the regular singers 
in a popular cafe. 

The train had now left commercial San 
Francisco behind and was climbing the hills to 
where the nature loving citizens had perched 
their houses in order to obtain a better view 
of the bay. We abandoned the car and fol- 
lowing an upward path, finally stood on the 
lower shoulder of Twin Peaks. Tired from 
our exertions we sank upon the soft grass. 
The hills had put on their festival attire, 
catching up their emerald gowns with bunches 

[7] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
of golden poppies and veiling their shoulders 
in filmy scarfs of blue lupins. The air was 
filled with Spring and the delicate blush of 
an apple-tree told of the approach of Sum- 
mer. Below, the city, noisy and bustling a 
few moments ago, now lay hushed to quiet 
by the distance and beyond, the sun-flecked 
waters of the bay stretched to a girdle of 
verdant hills, up whose sides the houses of 
the towns were scrambling. To the left, rest- 
ing on the top of Mt. Tamalpais, could be 
seen the "sleeping maiden" who for centuries 
had awaited the awakening kiss of her Indian 
lover. 

"What a glorious play-ground for San 
Francisco." His voice rang with enthusiasm. 
"Look at the ferryboats plowing up the bay 
in every direction. A man could escape from 
the factory grime on the water front and in 
an hour be asleep under a tree on a grassy 
hillside." 

"It is a splendid country to tramp through, 
but if a man wants to sleep, why not spend 
less time and money by selecting a nearer 
place? There are plenty of trees and grassy 
mounds in the Presidio and Golden Gate 
Park." 

His eyes followed mine to the green patch 
edging the entrance to the bay and then ran 
along the tree-lined avenue to the parked sec- 
tion extending almost from the center of the 
city to the Pacific Ocean. Suddenly he stood 
up and took his field glasses from his pocket. 

[8] 




PRAYER BOOK CROSS 
*A Granite Cross just visible above the trees in Golden Gate Park. 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 

"There's a granite cross just visible above 
the trees in Golden Gate Park." He focused 
his glasses for a better view. "It's quite elab- 
orate in design and seems to be raised on a 
hill." 

He offered me the glasses but I did not 
need them. "It's the Prayer-Book Gross and 
commemorates the first Church of England 
service held on this Coast by Sir Francis 
Drake in 1579. I think it is a shame that we 
haven't also a monument for Cabrillo, the 
real discoverer, who was here nearly forty 
years earlier. If Sir Francis hadn't stolen a 
Spanish ship's chart, he would never have 
found the Gulf of the Farallones. Cabrillo 
sailed along the coast more than half a cen- 
tury before Massachusetts Bay was discov- 
ered," I added maliciously. 

"I had forgotten the old duffer," he smiled 
back at me. Raising his glasses again, he 
scanned the sombre roofs to the right. 
"There's another monument," he volunteered, 
"rising out of the heart of the city." 

I followed the direction indicated to where 
the outstretched arms of a white wooden 
cross were silhouetted against the sky. 

"If I were in Europe," he continued, "I 
should call it a shrine, for the sides of the 
hill on which it stands are seamed with paths 
running from the net-work of houses to the 
foot of the cross." 

"It is a shrine at which all San Francisco 
worships. Wrapped in mystery it stands, for 

[9] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
when it was placed there no one knows. It 
comes to us out of the past — a token left by 
the Spanish padres. Three times it has fallen 
into decay, but always loving hands have 
reached forward to restore it, and as long as 
San Francisco shall last, a cross will rise from 
the summit of Lone Mountain." 

"The Spanish padres!" The ring in his 
voice bespoke his interest. "Are there any 
other relics left?" 

I pointed to the level section below. "Do 
you see that low red roof almost hidden by its 
towering neighbors? That is the old Mission 
San Francisco de Asis, colloquially called 
Dolores, from the little rivulet on whose bank 
it was built." 

Through his field glasses he scrutinized 
the expanse of substantial houses and paved 
streets. "I can't find the rivulet," he an- 
nounced. 

"Of course you can't, you stupid man!" I 
laughed. "If you'll use your imagination in- 
stead of your glasses you will see it easily. 
The stream arose, we are told, between the 
summits of Twin Peaks, and tumbling down 
the hill-side, made its way east, emptying into 
the Laguna." 

"I don't see a laguna!" Again the skeptic 
surveyed the field of roofs. 

"Put down your glasses and close your 
eyes," I commanded. "When you open them 
the houses from here to the bay will have 
disappeared and the ground will be covered 

[10] 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 
with a carpet of velvety green, dappled here 
and there by groves of oak trees and relieved 
by patches of bright poppies." 

"And fields of yellow mustard," he supple- 
mented. 

"No, your imagination is too vivid. The 
padres brought the mustard seed later. A 
little south of the present mission," I con- 
tinued, "you will see a group of willows bend- 
ing to drink the crystal waters of the Arroyo 
de los Dolores, so named because Anza and 
his followers discovered it on the day of our 
Mother of Sorrows, and to the east is the 
shining laguna." 

"It's clear as a San Francisco fog," he 
laughed. "I'd like to take a look at the old 
building! Is there a car line?" 

"Let's follow in the footsteps of the padres," 
I begged. "They used often to climb this hill 
and it isn't very far." 

He looked dubiously down the rugged side 
and mentally measured the distance from the 
base to the low tiled roof. 

"All right," he said at last," "if you'll let me 
take a ten minutes nap before we start." He 
stretched himself at full length on the soft 
grass and pulled his hat low over his eyes. 

I was glad to be quiet for a time and let 
my imagination have full sweep. I seemed 
to see, toiling up the peninsula, a little band 
of foot-sore travelers, the leathern-clad sol- 
diers on the alert for hostile Indians, the 
brown-robed friars encouraging the women 

[ii] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
and children, and the sturdy colonists bring- 
ing up the rear with their flocks and herds. 
At last the little company come to a sparkling 
rivulet and stoop to drink eagerly of the cool 
water. The commander examines his chart 
and nods to the tonsured priest who falls on 
his knees and raises his voice in thanksgiv- 
ing. Stretching out his arms in blessing to 
his flock, he exclaims: "Rest now, my chil- 
dren. Our journey is at an end. Here on the 
Arroyo de Nuestra Seiiora de los Dolores, we 
will establish the mission to our Father San 
Francisco de Asis." 

"If we want to see the old building before 
lunch time, we shall have to be moving," said 
a sleepy voice at my elbow. 

"Come on, then, I'll be your pathfinder," 
and we raced down the hill-side until the 
paved streets reminded us that city manners 
were expected. 

We followed the former course of the Ar- 
royo de los Dolores down Eighteenth to 
Church street, then turned north. Two blocks 
further on I laid a detaining hand on my com- 
panion's arm. 

"Hold, skeptic," I whispered, "thou art on 
holy ground." 

He looked up at the two-story dwelling 
house before us, let his eyes wander down 
the row of modest residences and linger on 
the pavements where a tattered newsboy was 
shying stones at a stray cat; then his glance 
came back to my face with a smile. "My be- 

[12] 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 
lief in your veracity is unlimited. I uncover." 
He stood for an instant with bared head. 
"Just when did this sanctification take place, 
was it before the fire or — " 

"It was on October 9th, 1776," I tried to 
speak impressively, "the year the Colonies 
made their Declaration of Independence. 
The procession began over there at the Pre- 
sidio," I pointed to the north. "A brown- 
robed friar carrying an image of St. Francis 
led the little company of men, women and 
children over the shifting sand-dunes to this 
very spot where a rude church had been 
erected. Its sides were of mud plastered over 
a palisade wall of willow poles and its ceil- 
ing a leaky roof of tule rushes but it was 
the beginning of a great undertaking and Fa- 
ther Paloii elevated the cross and blessed the 
site and all knelt to render thanks to the Lord 
for His goodness." 

"But I thought you said the church still 
existed." His eyes again sought the row of 
dwelling houses. 

"This was only for temporary use and later 
was pulled down. Six years after the fathers 
arrived, a larger and more substantial church 
was built one block farther east. But before 
you see that you must get into the spirit of the 
past by imagining a square of four blocks 
lying between Fifteenth and Seventeenth 
streets and Church and Guerrero, swept 
clean of these modern structures and filled 
with mission buildings. At the time when 

[13] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
you New Englanders were pushing the In- 
dians farther and farther into the wilderness, 
killing and capturing them, we Californians 
were drawing them to our missions with gifts 
and friendship. While you were leaving 
them in ignorance we were teaching them — " 
He stooped to get a full look at my eyes. 
"I never knew a Spaniard to have eyes the 
color of violets. Look up your family tree, 
my dear enthusiast, and I think you will find 
that you are we." 

"I'm not," I declared indignantly. "I'm a 
Californian. I was born here and even if I 
haven't Spanish blood in my veins, I have the 
spirit of the old padres." 

"But the spirit has not left a lasting im- 
pression. Indeed civilization whether dealt 
out with friendly hands or thrust upon the 
natives at the point of the bayonet seems to 
have been equally poisonous on both sides of 
the continent." 

"True, philosopher, but would you call the 
work of these padres impressionless, when it 
has permeated all California? The open- 
hearted hospitality of the Spaniards is a 
canonical law throughout the West, and their 
exuberant spirit of festivity still remains, im- 
pelling us to celebrate every possible event, 
present and commemorative." 

We had reached Dolores Street, a broad 
parked avenue where automobiles rushed by 
one another, shrieking a warning to the pedes- 
trian. Suddenly I found myself alone. My 

[14] 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 
companion had darted across the crowded 
street to a little oasis of grass where a mis- 
sion bell hung suspended on an iron standard. 

"It marks 'El Gamino Real,' " he reported 
as he rejoined me. 

"The King's Highway," I translated. "It 
must have been wonderful at this season of 
the year, for as the padres traveled north- 
ward, they scattered seeds of yellow mustard 
and in the spring a golden chain connected 
the missions from San Francisco to San Diego. 
Over there nearer the bay," I nodded toward 
the east where a heavy cloud of black smoke 
proclaimed the manufacturing section of the 
city, "lay the Potrero — the pasture-land of the 
padres — and the name still clings to the dis- 
trict. Beyond was Mission Gove, now filled in 
and covered with store-houses, but formerly 
a convenient landing place for the goods of 
Yankee skippers who, contrary to Spanish 
law, surreptitiously traded with the padres." 
We turned to the massive facade of the 
old church, where hung the three bells, of 
which Bret Harte wrote. 

"Bells of the past, whose long forgotten music 
Still fills the wide expanse; 
Tingeing the sober twilight of the present, 
With the color of romance.'* 

As we entered the low arched doorway, 
we seemed to step from the hurry of the 
twentieth century into the peace of a by-gone 
era. Outside, the modern structures crowd 
upon the low adobe building, staring down 

[15] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
upon it with unsympathetic eyes and begrudg- 
ing it the very land it stands on, while inside, 
hand-hewn rafters, massive grey walls, and 
a red tiled floor slightly depressed in places 
by years of service, point mutely to the past, 
to the days when padres and neophytes knelt 
at the sound of the Angelus. Within still 
stand the elaborate altars brought a century 
ago from Mexico, before which Junipero 
Serra held mass during his last visit to San 
Francisco. On the massive archway spanning 
the building, can be seen the dull red scroll 
pattern, a relic of Indian work. 

"Sing something," my companion suggested. 
"It needs music to make the spell complete." 

"It does," I assented, "but you must stay 
where you are," and climbing to a balcony at 
the end of the building, I concealed myself 
in the shadow. 

He glanced up at the first notes, then sat 
with bowed head. I filled the old church with 
an Ave Maria, then another. As I sang, the 
candles seemed to have been lighted on the 
gilded altars, and the brown friars and dusky 
Indians took form in the dim enclosure. 

"More," he urged, but I would not, for I 
feared that the spell might be broken. So 
he came up to see why I lingered, and found 
me mounted on a ladder peering up at the 
old mission bells and the hand-hewn rafters 
tied with ropes of plaited rawhide. 

My song must have attracted a passer-by, 
for a voice greeted us as we descended. 

[16] 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 

"Did you see the bells?" he asked eagerly. 
"They're a good deal like some of us old 
folks, out of commission because of age and 
disuse, but nevertheless they have their value. 
One has lost its tongue, another is cracked 
and the third sags against the side wall, so 
they're useless as church bells, but still they 
seem to speak of the days of the padres and 
the Indians." 

"Were there many Indians here?" ques- 
tioned the Bostonian. 

"Often more than a thousand. I was born 
in the shadow of this building, in the year 
when the Mission was secularized, but my 
father knew it in its glory and used to tell 
me many stories about the good old padres." 
Seeing the interest in our faces, the dark 
eyes brightened and he patted the thick adobe 
wall affectionately. "This church was only 
a small part of the Mission in those days. 
The buildings formed an inner quadrangle 
and two sides of an outer one, all a beehive 
of industry. There were the work rooms of 
the Indians, where blankets and cloth were 
woven; great vats for trying out tallow and 
curing hides, and also huge storehouses for 
grain and other foodstuffs, all built and cared 
for by the Indians." 

"Quite a change from their lazy roving life," 
suggested the Easterner. 

"Still the padres were not hard task- 
masters," insisted the stranger. "The work 
lasted only from four to six hours a day and 

[17] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
the evenings were devoted to games and danc- 
ing. All were required to attend religious 
services, however, and at the sound of the 
Angelus, they gathered within these walls. 
There was no sleeping through long prayers 
in those days," he added with an amused 
smile, "for a swarthy disciple paced the aisles 
and with a long pointed stick aroused the 
nodding ones, or quieted the too hilarious 
spirits of the small boys." 

"A good example for some of our modern 
churches," remarked my companion, as we 
followed our guide to the altar at the end of 
the chapel. The light streaming through the 
mullioned window fell full upon the carved 
figure of a tonsured monk clad in a loose robe 
girdled with a cord. "It is our father, St. 
Francis," explained the old man. "It was in 
accordance with his direct wish that this Mis- 
sion was founded." 

"Yes?" questioned the skeptic. 

"When Father Junipero Serra received or- 
ders from Galvez for the establishment of 
the missions in Alta California, and found 
that there was none for St. Francis, he ex- 
claimed: 'And is the founder of our order. 
St. Francis, to have no mission?' Thereupon 
the Visitador replied: 'If St. Francis desires 
a mission, let him show us his port,' and the 
Saint did!" the old face with its fringe of -soft 
white hair was transformed with religious 
enthusiasm. "He blinded the eyes of Portola 
and his men so that they did not recognize 

r is i 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 
Monterey and led them on to his own un- 
discovered bay. And in spite of the fact that 
the Mission has been stripped of its lands, 
we know that it is still under the special pro- 
tection of St. Francis, for it was not ten years 
ago that the second miracle was performed." 

"The second miracle!" we wonderingly re- 
peated. 

"Yes, it was at the time of the fire of 1906. 
The heart of San Francisco was a raging 
furnace. The fireproof buildings melted un- 
der the tremendous heat and collapsed as if 
they had been constructed of lead; the de- 
vouring flames swept over the Potrero; they 
fell upon the brick building next door and 
crept close to the walls of this old adobe, 
when suddenly, as if in the presence of a 
sacred relic, the fire crouched and died at its 
very doors." 

We passed the altar and the old man 
crossed himself, while in our hearts we, too, 
gave thanks for the preservation of this monu- 
ment of the past. 

"You must not go until you have seen the 
cemetery," said our guide as we moved to- 
ward the entrance, and throwing open a door 
to the right he admitted us to the neglected 
graveyard. Here and there a rude cross 
marked the resting place of an early Indian 
convert and an almost obliterated inscription 
on a broken headstone revealed the name of 
a Spanish grandee. Shattered columns, loos- 
ened by the hand of time and overthrown in 

[19] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
recent years, lay upon the ground, while great 
willow and pepper trees spread out protecting 
arms, as if to shield the silent company from 
the inroads of modern enterprise. We picked 
our way along vine-latticed paths, past graves 
over which myrtle and roses wandered in un- 
trimmed beauty, to where a white shaft 
marked the resting place of Don Luis Argii- 
ello, comandante of the San Francisco Pre- 
sidio for twenty-three years and the first 
Mexican governor of California. 

"How splendidly strong he looms out of 
the past," I said. "His keen insight into 
the needs of this western outpost and his de- 
termined efforts for the best interests of Cali- 
fornia will forever place him in the front 
rank of its rulers. I wonder if his young 
wife, Rafaela, is buried here also?" I drew 
aside the tangled vines from the near-by 
headstones. "She was always a little dearer 
to me than his second wife, the proud Dona 
Maria Ortega, perhaps because Rafaela be- 
longed pre-eminently to San Francisco. Her 
father, Ensign Sal, was acting comandante of 
the Presidio when Vancouver visited the 
Coast, and Rafaela and Luis Arguello grew 
up together in the little adobe settlement." 

"Go on," said the skeptic, leaning com- 
fortably against a tree trunk. "This old Mexi- 
can governor seems to have had an interest- 
ing romance." 

"He wasn't old," I protested, "only forty- 
six when he died. He was a splendid type of 

[20] 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 
a young Spanish grandee, tall and lithe of 
form, with the dark skin and hair of his race. 
He combined the freedom born of an out-of- 
door life with the courtly manners inherited 
from generations of Spanish ancestry. To 
Rafaela Sal, watching the soldiers file out of 
the mud-walled Presidio, it seemed that none 
sat his horse so straight nor so bravely as did 
Don Luis Arguello. And at night to the young 
soldier dozing before the campfire in the 
forest, the billowy smoke seemed to shape 
itself into the soft folds of a lace mantilla 
from which looked out the smiling face of a 
lovely grey-eyed girl, framed in an exquisite 
mist of copper-colored hair. 

"There was no opposition on the part of 
the parents to the union of these young peo- 
ple. The elder Arguello loved the sweet 
Rafaela as if she were his own daughter, and 
Ensign Sal was proud to claim the splendid 
young soldier as a son-in-law. So the be- 
trothal was solemnized, but since Don Luis 
was a Spanish officer, the marriage must 
await the consent of the king, and forthwith 
papers were dispatched to the court of 
Madrid. California was an isolated province 
in those days and the packet boat, touching 
on the shore but twice a year, frequently 
brought papers from Spain dated nine months 
previous, so the older people affirmed that 
permission could not be received for two 
years, while Luis and Rafaela declared that 
if the king answered at once — and surely he 

[21] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
would recognize the importance of haste — 
word might be received in eighteen months. 

"After a year and a half had passed the 
young people could talk of little besides the 
expected arrival of the boat with an order 
from the king. Frequently Luis would climb 
the hills back of the Presidio where the wide 
expanse of the ocean could be seen. At last a 
sail was discovered on the horizon and the lit- 
tle settlement was thrown into a turmoil of ex- 
citement. Luis was first at the beach and 
impatiently watched the ship make its way 
between the high bluffs that guarded the en- 
trance to the bay, and nose along the shore 
until it came to anchor in the little cove in 
front of the Presidio. Had the king's per- 
mission come? he eagerly asked his father, 
who was running through the papers handed 
him by the captain. But the elder man shook 
his head, and Luis turned with lagging steps 
to tell Rafaela that they must wait another 
six months. It seemed a long time to the im- 
patient lovers and yet there was much to 
make the days pass quickly at the Presidio. 
The door of the commodious sala at the home 
of the comandante always stood wide open, 
and almost nightly the feet of the young peo- 
ple which had danced since their babyhood 
tripped over the floor of the old adobe build- 
ing. Picnics were planned to the woods near 
the Mission and frequently longer excursions 
were undertaken; for El Camino Real was 
not only the king's highway to church and 

[22] 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 
military outposts, but also the royal road to 
pleasure, and when a wedding or a fiesta was 
at the end of a journey, no distance was 
counted too great. Luis watched his be- 
trothed blossom to fuller beauty, fearful lest 
someone else might steal her away before 
word from the king should arrive. 

"A year passed, then another. Packet boats 
came and went every six months, bringing 
orders to the comandante in regard to the 
administration of the military forces, con- 
cerning the treatment of foreign vessels, and 
of numerous other matters, but still the king 
remained silent on the one subject which, to 
the minds of the two young people, over- 
shadowed all else. Luis rashly threatened 
to run away with his betrothed, while Ra- 
faela, frightened, reminded him that there 
was not a priest in California or Mexico who 
would marry them without the king's order. 
And so each time the packet boat entered the 
harbor their hearts beat with renewed hope 
and then, disappointed, they watched it dis- 
appear through the Gulf of the Farallones, 
knowing that months would pass before an- 
other would arrive. 

"Thus six years had gone by since permis- 
sion had been asked of the king; six intermin- 
able years, they seemed to the lovers. Again 
the packet boat was sighted on the distant 
horizon. Luis saw the full white sails sweep 
past the fort guarding the entrance; he heard 
the salute of the guns and watched the anchor 

[23] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
lowered into the water before he made his 
way slowly down to the shore. It would be 
the same answer he had received so many 
times, he was sure, and he dreaded to put 
the question again. Ten minutes later he was 
racing over the sand-dunes to the Presidio, 
his face radiant and his hand tightly clasping 
an official document. It had come at last — 
the order from the king! Where was Ra- 
faela? He hurried to her house and, folding 
her close in his arms, he whispered that their 
long waiting was at an end; that she was 
his as long as life should last. 

"Rut, oh, such a little span of happiness 
was theirs! Only two brief years, and then 
the cold hand of death was laid upon the 
sweet Rafaela." 

For a moment my companion did not 
move. A bird sang in the tree above us and 
the wind sent a shower of pink petals over 
the green mound. Then, stooping, he picked 
a white Castilian rose from a tangle of shrub- 
bery and laid it at the base of the granite 
shaft. "In memory of the lovely Rafaela," 
he said softly. I unpinned a bunch of fra- 
grant violets from my jacket and placed them 
beside his offering, then we silently followed 
the shaded path to the white picket gate and 
were once more on the noisy thoroughfare. 

"A fitting resting place for the first Mexican 
governor of California," he said, glancing 
back at the heavy facade of the church, "so 
simple and dignified. Yet if Luis Argiiello 

[24] 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 

had lived in New England, we should have 
considered his house of equal importance 
with his grave and have placed a bronze 
tablet on the front, but you Westerners have 
so little regard for old — " 

"If you would like to see the home of Luis 
Arguello, I will show it to you. It is at the 
Presidio." 

"A hopeless mass of neglected ruins, I sup- 
pose. But still I should like to see the old 
walls, if you can find them." 

"Shall we take the Camino Real on foot, 
just as the old padres used to?" 

"Not if I have my way. I'll acknowledge that 
the Spanish friars have left you Galifornians 
one legacy that no Easterner can vie with, 
that is your love of tramping over these hills. 
I've seen streets in San Francisco so steep that 
teams seldom attempt them, as is evident 
from the grass between the cobblestones, and 
yet they are lined with dwellings." 

"Houses that are never vacant," I assured 
him. "We like to get off the level, and value 
our residence real estate by the view it af- 
fords." 

Noticing that the sun was now high, my 
companion drew out his watch. "Luncheon 
time," he announced. "Shall it be the Palace 
or St. Francis hotel?". 

"Let's keep in the spirit of the times and 
go to a Spanish restaurant," I suggested, and 
soon we were on a car headed for the Latin 
quarter. 

[25] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 

"May I replace the violets you left at the 
Mission?" he asked, as stepping from the car 
at Lotta's fountain, we lingered before the 
gay flower stands edging the sidewalk. 

Before I had a chance to reply a fragrant 
bunch was thrust into his hands by an urchin 
who announced: "Two for two-bits." 

"Two-bits is twenty-five cents," I inter- 
preted, seeing the Easterner's mystified look. 

"I'll take three bunches." His eyes rested 
admiringly on the big purple heads as he held 
out a dollar bill. 

"Ain't you got any real money?" asked the 
boy, not offering to touch the currency. 

Again the man's hand went to his pocket 
and drew out some small change, from which 
he selected a quarter, a dime and three one- 
cent pieces. The urchin turned the coppers 
over in his palm, then, diving below the heap 
of violets, he pulled out several California 
poppies. "We always give these to Eastern- 
ers," he announced as he tucked them in 
among the violets. 

"I wonder how that boy knew I was an 
Easterner?" the Bostonian reflected as we 
turned away. Then gently touching the 
golden petals, he asked : "Where did you get 
the odd name 'eschscholtzia' for this lovely 
flower?" 

"It was given by the French-born poet- 
naturalist, Chamisso, in honor of the German 
botanist, Dr. Eschscholz, who came together 
to San Francisco on a Russian ship in 1816. 

[26] 




AT LOTTA'S FOUNTAIN 
'We watched the people purchasing flowers on the corner. 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 
However, I like better the Spanish names, 
dormidera — the sleepy flower — or copa de 
oro — cup of gold," I added as I pinned the 
flowers to my coat. The man's glance wan- 
dered around Newspaper Corners, when sud- 
denly his look of surprise told me that he had 
discovered on this crowded section of com- 
mercial San Francisco a duplicate of the old 
bell hung in front of the Mission San Fran- 
cisco de Asis. 

"We are following El Camino Real from 
the Mission to the Presidio," I reminded him. 
We turned toward the shopping district, 
but the lure of the place made our feet lag. 
We watched the people purchasing flowers at 
the corner, and the little newsboys drinking 
from Lotta's fountain. 

"A tablet," he exclaimed delightedly, ex- 
amining the bronze plate fastened to the 
fountain. "I (didn't know you Westerners 
ever indulged in such things. 'Presented to 
San Francisco by Lotta, 1875,' " he read. 

"Little Lotta Crabtree," I explained, "the 
sweet singer who bewitched the city at a time 
when gold was still more plentiful than 
flowers, and her song was greeted by a shower 
of the glittering metal flung to her feet by 
enthusiastic miners. But read the second 
tablet," I suggested. "It was placed there 
with the permission of Lotta." 

"Tetrazzini !" his voice rang with surprise. 

"Can you picture this place surging with 
people as it was on Christmas night five years 

[27] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 

ago, when Tetrazzini sang to San Francisco?" 
I asked. "The crowd began to gather long 
before the appointed time — the wealthy 
banker from his spacious home on Pacific 
Heights, the grimy laborer from the Potrero 
and the little newsboy with the badge of his 
profession slung over his shoulder. Flushed 
with excitement, the courted debutante drew 
back to give her place to a tired factory girl 
and close to the platform an old Italian, who 
had tramped all the way from Telegraph Hill, 
patiently waited to hear the sweet voice of 
his country woman. 'Tetrazzini is here,' they 
said to one another; Tetrazzini, who had been 
discovered and adored by the people of San 
Francisco when, as an unknown singer, she 
appeared in the old Tivoli opera house. At 
last she came, wrapped in a rose-colored 
opera coat, and was greeted with shouts of 
joy from a quarter of a million throats. She 
was radiant; smiling and dimpling she waved 
her handkerchief with the abandonment of 
a child. The storm of applause increased, 
rolling up the street to the very summit of 
Twin Peaks. Suddenly the soft liquid notes 
of a clear soprano fell upon the air, and in- 
stantly the great multitude was wrapped in 
silence. Out over the heads of the people 
the exquisite tones floated, mounting upward 
to the stars. It was the 'Last Rose of Sum- 
mer,' and as she sang her opera coat slipped 
from her, leaving her bare shoulders and 
white filmy gown silhouetted against the 
[28] 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 
sombre background. She sang again and 
again, while the vast throng seemed scarcely 
to breathe. Then she began the familiar 
strains of 'Old Lang Syne,' and at a sign, two 
hundred and fifty thousand people joined in 
the refrain." 

"There is not a city in all the world except 
San Francisco which could have done such 
a thing," enthusiastically rejoined my com- 
panion, but the next instant the eccentricities 
of the place struck him afresh. 

"Furs and apple blossoms!" he exclaimed, 
observing a woman opposite. "What a 
ridiculous combination !" Then, turning, he 
scrutinized me from the top of my flower- 
trimmed hat to the bottom of my full skirt 
until my cheeks burned with embarrassment. 
"Why, you have on a thin summer silk, while 
that woman is dressed for mid- winter!" 

"Of course," I assented. "She's on the 
shady side of the street." 

But still his face did not lighten. "We've 
been in the sun all morning," I continued to 
explain. "People talk about San Francisco 
being an expensive place to live in, but really 
it is the cheapest in the world. If a woman 
has a handsome set of furs, she wears them 
and keeps in the shadow, or if her new spring 
suit has just come home, she puts that on 
and walks on the sunny side of the street, 
being comfortably and appropriately dressed 
in either." 

"Great heavens!" he cried, "what a city!" 

[29] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
We passed through the shopping district 
and lingered for a moment at the edge of 
Portsmouth Square. My eyes rested affection- 
ately on the clean-cut lawns and blossoming 
shrubs. Then I turned to the skeptic, but 
before I could speak, he had dismissed it with 
a nod. 

"Too modern," he commented. "Looks as 
if it had been planted yesterday. "Now the 
Boston Common — " 

A rasping discordant sound burst from a 
near-by store and the Easterner sent me a 
questioning glance. 

"A Chinese orchestra," I replied. "We are 
in Oriental San Francisco." 

"That park was doubtless made as a breath- 
ing place for this congested Chinese quarter," 
he glanced back at the green square. "A good 
civic improvement." 

"That park is a relic of old Spanish days 
and one of the most historic spots in San 
Francisco," I said severely. 

He stopped short. "You don't mean — I 
didn't suppose there was anything old in 
commercial San Francisco." 

"Portsmouth Square was once the Plaza of 
the little Spanish town of Yerba Buena, and 
the public meeting place of the community 
when there were not half a dozen houses in 
San Francisco." 

"Let's go back." He wheeled about ab- 
ruptly and started in the direction of the 
square, but I protested. 

[ 30 ] 



THE MISSION and ITS ROMANCE 

"I am hungry and I want some luncheon!" 

"Then we'll return this afternoon." There 
was determination in his voice. 

"We will hardly have time if we visit Luis 
Arguello's home at the Presidio," I objected. 

"All right, we'll take it in tomorrow, then." 
Hastening on, we were soon in the midst 
of the huddled houses of the Latin quarter. 
Tucked away between two larger buildings, 
we found a quaint Spanish restaurant. As 
we opened our tamales, my companion again 
referred to Portsmouth Square. 

"Tell me about it," he demanded. "Does 
it date with the Mission and Presidio?" 

"No, it is of later birth, but still of equal 
interest in the history of San Francisco. The 
city grew up from three points — the Mission" 
— I pulled a poppy from my bouquet and 
placed it on the table to mark the old adobe — 
"the Presidio" — I moved a salt cellar to the 
right of the flower — "and the town of Yerba 
Buena," this I indicated by a pepper box 
below the other two. "Roads connected these 
points like the sides of a triangle and grad- 
ually the intervening spaces w T ere filled with 
houses." 

"Go on." He leaned back in his chair, but 
I had already risen. "It will be more inter- 
esting to hear the story on the spot tomor- 
row," I assured him as I drew on my gloves. 



[31 



THE PRESIDIO 

THE SPANISH FORTIFICATIONS 

AND THE LOVE STORY OF CONCEPCION AND 

REZANOV 




THE PRESIDIO PAST and PRESENT 

E hailed a car marked "Exposi- 
tion" and were soon climbing 
the hills to the west. Between 
the houses, we had fleeting 
glances of the bay with its 
freight of vessels. Here waved 
the tri-color of France, while 
next to it the black, white and 
red flag of Germany was flung to the breeze, 
and within a stone's throw, Johnny Bull had 
cast out his insignia. At a little distance the 
ships of Austria and Russia rested side by side, 
and between the vessels the bustling little 
ferry-boats were churning up the blue water. 
"It is difficult to picture this bay as it was in 
early Spanish days," I said, "destitute of boats 
and so full of otter that when the Russians 
and Alaskan Aleuts began plundering these 
waters, they had only to lean from the canoes 
and kill hundreds with their oars." 

"But what right had the Russian here? 
Why didn't the Spaniards stop them? Otter 
must have brought a good price in those 
days." There was a ring of indignation in his 
voice, that told his interest had been aroused. 
"San Francisco was helpless. There was 
not a boat on the bay, except the rude tule 
canoes of the Indians — 'boats of straw' — Van- 
couver called them, and these were no match 
for the swift darting bidarkas of the Alaskan 
natives." 

"And Luis Arguello in command!" 

[35] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
I saw my idol falling, and hastened to as- 
sure him that the Comandante had built a 
boat a short time before, but the result was 
so disastrous that he never tried it again. The 
Presidio was in great need of repair and the 
government at Mexico had paid no heed to 
the constant requests for assistance, so Com- 
andante Argiiello had determined to take 
matters into his own hands. The peninsula was 
destitute of large timber, but ten miles across 
the bay were abundant forests, if he could 
but reach them. He, therefore, secured the 
services of an English carpenter to construct 
a boat, while his men traveled two hundred 
miles by land, down the peninsula to San 
Jose, along the contra costa, across the straits 
of Carquinez and touching at the present loca- 
tion of Petaluma and San Rafael, finally ar- 
rived at the spot selected. In the meantime 
the spldiers were taught to sail the craft, and 
the first ferryboat, at length started across 
the bay. But a squall was encountered, the 
land-loving men lost their heads, and it was 
only through Arguello's presence of mind that 
the boat finally reached its destination. For 
the return trip, the services of an Indian chief 
were secured, a native who had been seen 
so often on the bay in his raft of rushes, that 
the Spaniards called him 'El Marino,' the 
Sailor, and this name, corrupted into Marin, 
still clings to the land where he lived. Many 
trips were made in this ferry, but the com- 
andante's subordinates were less successful 
[36] 



THE PRESIDIO, PAST and PRESENT 
than he, for one, being swept out to sea, 
drifted about for a day or two until a more 
favorable wind and tide brought him back 
to San Francisco. The Spaniards called the 
land where the trees were felled 'Corte Ma- 
dera,' the place of hewn-wood, and a little 
town on the site still bears the name." 

"But what became of the boat? You said — " 

"Governor Sola was furious that any one 
should dare to build a boat without his or- 
ders. He called it 'insubordination.' How did 
he know what was the real purpose of the 
craft? Might it not have been built to aid 
the Russians in securing otter or to help the 
'Boston Nation' in their nefarious smuggling?" 
My companion straightened with interest, 
"The Boston Nation?" 

"Yes, even in those days the Yankee skip- 
pers, who occasionally did a little secret trad- 
ing with the padres, told such marvelous 
stories of Boston that the Spaniards thought 
it must be a nation instead of a little town. 
In fact, the United States does not seem to 
have been considered of much importance by 
Spain, for when the American ship 'Columbia' 
was expected to touch on this coast it was 
referred to as 'General Washington's vessel.' " 

"Go on with your boat story," a smile played 
about the corners of his mouth. "What be- 
came of the craft?" 

"The Governor ordered it sent to Monterey 
and commanded Arguello to appear before 
him. The Comandante was surprised to have 

[37] ■ 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
his work thus suddenly interrupted but has- 
tened to obey orders. On the way his horse 
stumbled and fell, injuring his rider's leg so 
seriously that when Argiiello reached Monte- 
rey, he was hardly able to stand. Without 
stopping to have his injury dressed, he limped 
into the Governor's presence, supporting him- 
self on his sword. 

" 'How dared you build a launch and repair 
your Presidio without my permission?' ex- 
claimed the exasperated Governor. 

" 'Because I and my soldiers were living in 
hovels, and we were capable of bettering our 
condition,' was the reply. 

"Governor Sola, not noted for his genial 
temper, raised his cane with the evident in- 
tention of using it, when he noticed that the 
young Comandante had drawn himself erect 
and was handling the hilt of his naked sword. 

"'Why did you do that?' the Governor de- 
manded. 

" 'Because I was tired of my former position, 
and also because I do not intend to be beaten 
without resistance,' Argiiello answered. 

"For a moment the Governor was taken 
back, then he held out his hand. 'This is the 
bearing of a soldier and worthy of a man of 
honor,' he said. 'Blows are only for cowards 
who deserve them.' 

"Argiiello took the outstretched hand and 
from this time he and the Governor were 
close friends. But the boat proved so useful 
at Monterey, that it was never returned." 
[38] 



THE PRESIDIO, PAST and PRESENT 

The Jeweled Tower of the Exposition came 
into view. "So it is to be the three months' 
old World's Fair, after all, instead of the 
home of the first Mexican Governor of Cali- 
fornia?" 

Rut I did not rise. "The Presidio is just 
beyond," I explained. Then seeing him glanc- 
ing admiringly at the green domes: "Per- 
haps you would rather — " 

"No," he answered me, "I'm an antiquary 
and I want to see the old adobe house." 

Leaving the car at the Presidio entrance, 
we passed down the shaded driveway and 
along the winding path that led to the old 
parade ground. "This military reservation 
covers about the same ground as the old 
Spanish Presidio," I explained. "At that 
time, however, it was a sweep of tawny sand- 
dunes, for the Spaniards had neither the 
ability nor the money to beautify the place. 
After it came into possession of the Ameri- 
cans, lupins were scattered broadcast as a 
first means of cultivation and for a time the 
undulating hills were veiled in blue. Later, 
groves of pine and eucalyptus trees together 
with grass and flowers were planted, until 
now it may be regarded as one of the parks 
of San Francisco. This was the original plaza 
of the old Spanish Presidio," I continued, as 
we emerged onto the quadrangle, "and it was 
then lined with houses as it is today, only at 
that time they were crude adobe structures. 
Surrounding these was a wall fourteen feet 

[39] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
high, made of huge upright and horizontal 
saplings plastered with mud, and as a further 
means of protection, a wide ditch was dug 
on the outside. Here Luis Arguello was Com- 
andante for twenty-three years." 

Our eyes wandered over the substantia] 
structures with their well-trimmed gardens 
and rested on a low rambling building op- 
posite, protected from the gaze of the curious 
by an old palm and guarded by a quaint 
Spanish cannon. The building's simple out- 
lines, even at a distance, bespoke it as of a 
different generation from its more aggres- 
sive neighbors, even though its red-tiled roof 
had been replaced by sombre brown shingles, 
and its crumbling walls replastered. We 
crossed over the parade ground, and peering 
within, found that the building had been con- 
verted into an officers' club house. 

"Did you see the bronze tablet on the 
front?" I demanded. 

"Yes," he admitted rather sheepishly, turn- 
ing to examine the deep window embrasure 
that showed the width of the walls. 

"There's an atmosphere of romance about 
the old place — " 

"And well there may be," I broke in, "for 
it was here that Rafaela Sal came as a bride, 
and that Rezanov met Luis Argiiello's beauti- 
ful sister, Concepcion, and a love story began 
which may well take place with that of Miles 
Standish and Priscilla." 

"Rezanov," he repeated, searching his mem- 

[40] 




THE OFFICERS' CLUB HOUSE AT THE PRESIDIO 
"Of a different generation from its neighbors." 



THE PRESIDIO, PAST and PRESENT 
ory. "I recall that there was a romance con- 
nected with his visit to San Francisco but 
the details have escaped me. Please sit down 
on this bench and tell me the story just as 
if I had never heard it before." 

"More than a century ago there dwelt in 
this old adobe house a beautiful maiden," I 
began. "Her father was Gomandante of the 
Presidio, 'el Santo,' the people termed him, 
because of his goodness. Concepcion, or 
Concha, as she was affectionately called by 
her parents, was only fifteen years old when 
our story begins — a tall, slender girl with 
masses of fine black hair and the fair Cas- 
tilian skin, inherited from her mother. So 
lovely was she that many a caballero had 
already sung at her grating, but she would 
listen to none of them. Her lover would come 
from over the sea, she declared, someone 
who could tell her about the wide outside 
world. 

" 'Then you will die unmarried,' said her 
mother, kissing the soft cheek, 'for travelers 
seldom come as far as San Francisco.' 

" 'A ship ! a ship !' sounded a cry from the 
plaza. A vessel had been sighted off Cantil 
Blanco, the first foreign ship seen since Van- 
couver's visit fourteen years before. 

" 'It is the Russian expedition which Spain 
has ordered us to treat courteously,' ex- 
claimed Don Luis, bursting into the house, 
his face aglow with excitement. 'Since father 
is in Monterey and I am acting Gomandante, 

[41] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
I must receive these strangers,' he continued 
as he threw his serape over his shoulders, his 
eyes flashing with his first taste of command. 

" 'Be careful,' cautioned his mother, 'we 
have had no word from Europe for nine 
months and the last packet boat from Mexico 
brought a rumor of war with Russia.' 

"But the foreign vessel had come only with 
friendly intentions. The Russian Chamber- 
lain Rezanov, in charge of the Czar's north- 
western possessions, had found a starving 
colony at Sitka and had brought a cargo of 
goods to the more productive southland with 
the hope of exchanging it for foodstuffs. To 
be sure, he knew the Spanish law strictly 
forbidding trade with foreign vessels, but it 
seemed the only means of saving his famish- 
ing people and he trusted much to his skill 
in diplomacy. 

"A few hours later, Concha, on the qui 
vive with excitement, saw her brother ap- 
proaching with a little company of men, 
among whom was a tall well-built Russian 
officer, whose keen eyes seemed to take in 
every detail of the little settlement. 

"Don Luis conducted his guests to the old 
adobe building, draped in pink Castilian 
roses, and into the cool sala, which, although 
provided with slippery horse-hair chairs and 
plain white-washed walls ornamented with 
pictures of the Virgin and saints, was a pleas- 
ing contrast to the ship's cabin. Here he pre- 
sented his guests to his mother, a woman 

[42] 



THE PRESIDIO, PAST and PRESENT 
whose face still reflected much of the beauty 
of her youth in spite of her cares which had 
come in the rearing of her thirteen children. 
Beside her stood Concepcion. Her long 
drooping lashes swept her cheeks, but when 
she raised her eyes in greeting Rezanov saw 
that they were dark and joyous. He was a 
widower of many years, a man of forty-two, 
who had given little thought to women during 
his wandering life, but now he found himself 
keenly alive to the charms of this radiant 
girl. Simple and artless in her manners, yet 
possessing the early maturity of her race, she 
set her guests at ease and entertained them 
with stories of life on the great ranchos, while 
her mother was busy with household duties. 
"It was ten days before Don Jose Argiiello 
returned from Monterey and in the meantime 
no business could be transacted. During 
these days Rezanov saw much of Concepcion, 
for there was dancing every afternoon at the 
home of the Comandante and frequent pic- 
nics into the neighboring woods. It was not 
long before the Russian learned that Con- 
cepcion was not only La Favorita of the Pre- 
sidio, but also of all California, for although 
born at San Francisco, she had spent much 
time in her childhood at Santa Barbara, where 
her father had been Comandante. With a 
chain of missions and ranchos extending from 
San Diego to San Francisco, there was much 
interchange of hospitality, and Concha was 
a favorite guest at all fiestas. So the dark- 

[43] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
eyed Spanish girl had danced her way into 
the heart of many a youth as she was now 
doing into that of this powerful Russian. 

"Often he would stand in the shadow of 
the deep window casement and watch her 
lithe young figure bend in the graceful borego, 
occasionally catching a glance from beneath 
the sweeping lashes that would send his blood 
surging through his veins and make him al- 
most forget the purpose of his voyage. Some- 
times he would draw her aside to talk of his 
hope that the Spaniards would furnish him 
bread-stuffs for his starving colony and he 
marveled at her keen insight into the affairs 
of state, while his heart beat the quicker for 
her warm sympathy. Often their talk would 
wander to other things and as she occasion- 
ally flashed a smile in his direction, showing 
a row of pearly teeth, his blood tingled and 
he thought that the flush on her cheek was 
not unlike the pink Castilian rose that was 
nightly tucked in the soft coils of her shadowy 
hair. At times he imagined her clad in rich 
satin, with a rope of pearls about her deli- 
cate throat, and as he drew the picture he 
saw her as a star among the ladies of the 
Russian court. 

"When Don Jose Argiiello returned, Reza- 
nov asked him for the hand of his daughter 
in marriage, but the Comandante indignantly 
refused. Although liking the distinguished 
Russian for himself, he would not listen to 
such a proposal. Give his daughter to a 

[44] 



THE PRESIDIO, PAST and PRESENT 
foreigner and a heretic! Never! It was not 
to be thought of for an instant. Concha must 
be sent away. She must not see this Russian 
again ! He would have her taken to the home 
of his brother, who lived near the Mission, un- 
til the foreign ship was out of the bay. While 
the father talked, the mother hurried to the 
padres to beg the good priests to forbid such 
a union. 

"But Concha was no longer the docile girl 
of a month ago. She was a woman and her 
heart was in the keeping of this sturdy Rus- 
sian. She would have him or none, and noth- 
ing the padres or her parents could say would 
change her. Don Jose had never crossed his 
daughter before, and now as she flung her 
arms about his neck and begged for her hap- 
piness he weakened. After all, this Russian 
was a splendid fellow, and perhaps it might 
be an advantage to Spain, rather than a detri- 
ment to have an ally at Petrograd. In the 
end the pleading of Concha and the argu- 
ments of Rezanov won. Comandante Argii- 
ello yielded and the betrothal was solemnized, 
but there were many obstacles before the 
marriage could be consummated. The per- 
mission of the Czar of Russia and the King 
of Spain must be obtained, and this would 
take time, as well as involve a long and dan- 
gerous trip. But nothing could daunt the 
spirits of the lovers. Concepcion's brother, 
Luis, had already waited six years for per- 
mission to marry Rafaela Sal and if Rezanov 

[45] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
traveled with haste he could return in two. 
He must go first to Petrograd to ask the 
consent of the Czar and then to the Court 
of Madrid to promote more friendly relations 
between the two countries, finally returning 
to claim his bride, by way of Mexico. But 
before he could start on his journey, his starv- 
ing Alaskan colony must be provided for, 
and after considerable discussion, arrange- 
ments were made for an interchange of com- 
modities, and the hold of the Russian ship, 
'Juno' was packed with foodstuffs for the 
Sitkans, while the ladies at the Presidio were 
resplendent in soft Russian fabrics and the 
padres were rejoicing in new cooking utensils 
for their large Indian family. 

"At length the 'Juno' weighed anchor and 
the white sails filled with the afternoon 
breeze. As the Russians came opposite Cantil 
Blanco, the fort which had scowled so men- 
acingly upon them on their entrance forty- 
four days before, now smiled with friendly 
faces. There was much waving of hats and 
many shouts of farewell from the little group 
on the shore, but Rezanov saw only the figure 
of a tall graceful girl with the soft folds of 
a mantilla billowing about her head and 
shoulders and heard only the murmur of love 
from the rosy lips. 'Two years,' he whispered 
back to her, as the ship passed out through 
the Gulf of the Farallones and became but a 
speck on the sunset sky. 

"The two years passed and still there was 

[46] 



THE PRESIDIO, PAST and PRESENT 
no sign of the returning vessel. Luis Argii- 
ello had been married to the lovely Rafaela 
and a little son had come to bless their house- 
hold, and yet Concepcion looked out over the 
ocean watching for the white sail of a foreign 
ship. The sweet grey eyes of Luis' young 
wife were closed in death and Concha's heart 
and hands went out in sympathetic love and 
deeds to the stricken family, all the while try- 
ing to still in her own breast the fear that a 
like fate had overtaken her loved one. The 
verdant hills were again streaked with golden 
poppies and once more turned to tawny 
brown and still no ship nor word came from 
over the sea. 

"It was eight or ten years before even a 
rumor of the fate of her lover reached Con- 
cepcion, and not until she met the English- 
man, Sir George Simpson, twenty-five years 
after Rezanov sailed out of San Francisco 
bay, did she learn the details of his death. 
It was almost winter when, leaving Alaska, 
he crossed the ocean and began his perilous 
trip through Siberia. Frequently drenched 
to the skin and undergoing terrible privations, 
he traveled for thousands of miles on horse- 
back, now lying at some wayside inn burning 
with fever and again pushing on until he 
dropped prostrate at the next village. A fall 
from his horse added to his already serious 
condition, which resulted in his death in the 
little village of Krasnoiark, and he lies now 
buried beneath the snows of Siberia. 

[47] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 

"Although many sought her hand in mar- 
riage, Concepcion remained faithful to her 
Russian lover. There being no convent for 
women in the country at that time, she 
donned the grey habit of the 'Third Order of 
St. Francis in the world,' devoting her life 
to the care of the sick and the teaching of the 
poor. Later when a Dominican convent was 
established," I added, rising, "she became 
not only its first nun, but also its Mother 
Superior." 

"A romance that may well take a place 
with such world-famed love stories as those 
of Abelard and Heloise, and Alexandre and 
Thais. I should like to make a pilgrimage 
to her grave," he added as we left the old 
adobe house. 

"You can," I replied. "It's tucked away in 
a corner of the Benicia Cemetery, marked by 
a marble slab carved with her name and a 
simple cross." 

We entered a grove of eucalyptus trees, 
which now and again divided, giving marvel- 
ous views of the bay and the Marin shore. 

But my companion's mind still dwelt on 
the story he had heard. "So Concepcion suf- 
fered in the uncertainty of hope and despair 
for ten years," he said, "but ten months of it 
brought me to the limit of endurance. Do 
you think if Rezanov had returned and Con- 
cepcion had married him and gone to Petro- 
grad she would have been happy?" 

"Of course she would." 

[48] 



THE PRESIDIO, PAST and PRESENT 

"Still Petrograd is a cold, dreary place com- 
pared to California." 

"But what difference would that make? A 
woman would give up everything and count 
it no sacrifice for the man she loved." 
"And you said only yesterday — " 
"Oh, but that was different," I assured him, 
my cheeks burning under his gaze. "Rezanov 
loved California. He thought it so wonderful 
that he wanted it for a Russian province, and 
he would have brought Concepcion back to 
visit—" 

"Boston is nearer than Petrograd and not 
so cold. Don't you think you could teach me 
to love California, too?" 

"Perhaps," I acknowledged. Then anxious 
to turn the conversation, I asked: "Would 
you like to see the location of the old Spanish 
fort?" He nodded and we took the road lead- 
ing to the present Fort Point. "I can't show 
you the exact location," I confessed, "because 
the United States cut down the bold promon- 
tory, Cantil Blanco, in order to place the pres- 
ent fortification close to the water's edge, but 
if you will use your imagination and picture 
a white cliff towering a hundred feet above 
the water at the point where Fort Winfield 
Scott now stands, you will see the entrance 
to the bay as it was in Spanish days. Here 
was located the old fort, called Castilla San 
Joaquin, which guarded the harbor for many 
years. Made of adobe in the shape of a horse- 
shoe, so perishable that the walls crumbled 

[49] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
every time a shot was fired, still it answered 
its purpose, as it was never needed for any- 
thing but friendly salutes, and even these 
were at times, perforce, omitted. The Rus- 
sian, Kotzebue, states that when he entered 
the harbor he was impressed by the old fort 
and the soldiers drawn up in military array, 
but wondered that no return was made to his 
salute. A little later, however, the omission 
of the courtesy was explained when a Spanish 
officer boarded the vessel and asked to bor- 
row sufficient powder for this purpose. More- 
over, Robinson tells us that frequently during 
the afternoon's siesta a foreign ship would 
pass the fort, drop anchor in Yerba Buena 
Cove, and spend several days in the bay 
before the Presidio officers would know of 
its presence. But this was after the time of 
Luis Arguello." 

One by one the palaces of light in the 
Exposition grounds below us burst into radi- 
ance. The Horticultural dome turned to a 
wonderful iridescent bubble and the Tower 
of Jewels caught and reflected the light that 
played upon it. Wide bands of color streaked 
the sombre sky, transforming the clouds to 
shades of violet, yellow and rose. "The rain- 
bow colors of promise," he said gently as he 
drew closer. "I shall take them as a message 
of hope that I shall win the love of the woman 
who is dearer to me than all else in life I" 



T50] 



THE PLAZA 

A CHINESE RESTAURANT. 

YERRA RUENA AND THE REMINISCENCES OF 

A FORTY-NINER 




THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 

e careful," I warned, "you'll get 
your feet wet." 

We stood on the corner of 
Montgomery and Commercial 
Streets, having carried out our 
resolution of the day previous 
to continue our search for old 
landmarks. The Bostonian 
moved uncomfortably under the warmth of 
the noonday sun, and glanced down at the 
dry glaring pavement; then he stooped to turn 
up his trousers. 

"All right," he announced, "is it an arroyo 
or has the hose used in putting out 'the fire' 
suddenly burst?" 

"Neither. The arroyo was a block further 
south. It ran down what is now Sacramento 
Street, and you ought to know enough about 
the fire to realize that we couldn't use our 
fire hose, because the earthquake broke the 
water mains." 

"Then there was an earthquake!" He shot 
an amused glance at me. "You're the first 
Californian I've heard acknowledge it." 

"Oh yes, there was an earthquake — but it 
didn't do much damage," I hastened to add. 
"Just knocked down a few chimneys and 
rickety buildings that the city was going to 
pull down anyway. It was the fire that de- 
stroyed the city." 

"So Mother Nature was just favoring 'Frisco 
by lending a helping hand to the city offi- 

[53] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
cials," he laughed. "Well, you see I'm pre- 
pared for the deluge." He indicated his up- 
turned trousers. "But if it isn't an arroyo — " 

"It's the bay," I explained. "It used to touch 
the shore about where we are standing, form- 
ing a little inlet called Yerba Buena Cove." 

"But," objected the man, mentally measur- 
ing the distance down the straight paved 
street to where the slender shaft-like tower 
of the Ferry Building broke the sky line, "it 
must be seven blocks from here to the pres- 
ent waterfront, two thousand feet at least." 

"Yes, fully that," I agreed. "A large part 
of the business section of San Francisco 
stands on made-land. The water along the 
shore, here at Montgomery street, was very 
shallow, and at the time of the gold rush, 
when seven or eight hundred vessels were 
waiting in the bay to discharge their freight 
and passengers, a corporation of energetic 
Americans built a long wharf from here to 
the deep water, where the ships were an- 
chored. Look down Commercial Street to the 
Ferry Building and, instead of the houses on 
either side, imagine it open to the water. Then 
you will see Central Wharf as it was in 'forty- 
nine.' " 

"Central Wharf!" The name had caught 
his interest. 

"Yes, it was called that from the one you 
have in Bost." 

"Bost?" he repeated, mystified. "Bost?" 

"Yes, Bost!" I answered. "You called our 

[54] 



THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 

city 'Frisco, not five minutes ago, so why 

shouldn't I—" 

"I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I 
will never offend in that way again." 

"But the building of the wharves and the 
filling in of the waterfront belong to a later 
time and we are back in Spanish days. When 
Vancouver landed he tells us that he cast 
anchor within a small inlet surrounded by 
green hills, on which herds and cattle were 
grazing. Historians say that his ship lay 
about where the Ferry Building now stands 
and that the crew put off for the shore in 
small boats. This place was a waste of sand- 
dunes and chaparral but the Englishmen were 
refreshed by the cool waters of the arroyo 
and spent a pleasant morning shooting quail 
and grouse." 

"Quail, grouse and chaparral," he repeated, 
as his eyes traveled up and down the solidly 
built blocks and rested on the pedestrians 
hurrying in and out of the buildings. "Let's 
take a look at the bed of the arroyo." 

We paused at the corner and for a mo- 
ment watched the car laboriously' climb the 
Sacramento Street hill and disappear over the 
crest; then we turned for another look at the 
mass of buildings now resting on the solid 
ground which had taken the place of the 
shining waters of Yerba Buena Cove. 

"It was about here," I announced, "that 
the arroyo opened out into the Laguna Dulce, 
a little fresh water pool where Richardson's 

[55] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
Indians delighted to take a cold plunge on 
leaving their steaming temescal." 

"Richardson? Hardly a Spanish name!" 

"No, but a Spaniard by naturalization and 
marriage. He was an Englishman who had 
come to the coast in the whaler 'Orion,' and 
being fascinated by the country and the care- 
free Spanish life, had married a lovely little 
senorita, the daughter of Lieutenant Martinez, 
later Comandante of the Presidio. Rich- 
ardson settled on a ranch at Sausalito and in 
1835, when Governor Figueroa decided to 
establish a commercial city on the shore of 
Yerba Ruena Cove, he appointed as harbor 
master, this Englishman, who was already 
carrying on a small business with the Yankee 
skippers, and the future town was made a 
port of entry for all vessels trading up and 
down the coast. Richardson built the first 
house in the little settlement of Yerba Ruena, 
afterwards San Francisco." 

"Since this is an historic pilgrimage, we 
must take a look at the spot where the first 
house stood. Is it far?" 

"Only a few blocks," I assured him. "Rut 
we shall have to venture into the heart of 
Chinatown." 

We made our way up Sacramento Street, 
where the straight-lined grey business blocks 
gave way to fantastic pagoda-like buildings 
gaily decorated in green, red, and yellow. 
Rits of carved ivory, rich lacquer ware and 
choice pieces of satsuma and cloisonne ap- 

[56] 



THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 
peared in the windows. In quiet, padded 
shoes, the sallow-faced, almond-eyed throng 
shuffled by us; here a man with a delicate 
lavender lining showing below his blue coat, 
there a slant-eyed woman with her sleek 
black hair rolled over a brilliant jade orna- 
ment, leading by the hand a little boy who 
looked as if he had stepped out of a picture 
book with his yellow trousers and pink coat. 

We turned to the right at Grant Avenue, 
passing a building conspicuous on account 
of its elaborately carved balconies hung with 
yellow lanterns and ornamented with plants 
growing in large blue and white china pots. 
The Bostonian looked curiously at the Ori- 
entals lounging about the door, then his face 
brightened as he read the words, "Chop 
Suey." 

"It's a Chinese restaurant," he exclaimed 
delightedly. "Let's go in for a cup of tea, 
as soon as we have taken a look at your his- 
toric landmarks." 

On the northwest corner of Grant Avenue 
and Clay Street, we paused before a dingy 
four-story brick building on whose sides were 
pasted long strips of red paper ornamented 
with quaint Chinese characters. I secretly 
wished that the building had been designed 
as a gay pagoda with bright colored, turned- 
up eaves like many of those in Chinatown 
and that its windows had displayed the choice 
embroideries and carved ivories of some of 
its neighbors, but as we peered through the 

[57] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
glass, we saw only utilitarian articles for the 
coolie Chinaman. 

"Rather a sordid setting for my story," I 
bemoaned. "The first house in commercial 
San Francisco stood here. It was only a sail 
stretched around four pine posts, but two 
years later was replaced by a picturesque, 
red-tiled adobe, so commodious that the Span- 
iards called it the Casa Grande. I am afraid 
the building now occupying the spot where 
the second house stood will be equally disap- 
pointing," I said ruefully, as we recrossed the 
street to where a Chinese butcher and vege- 
table vender was displaying his wares. We 
gazed curiously at the dangling pieces of dried 
fish, strings of sausage-like meat, unfamiliar 
vegetables, lichee nuts and sticks of green 
sugar cane. 

"Somewhat different from the silks, satins 
and laces displayed on this spot by Jacob 
Leese in Spanish days," I reflected. "He was 
a Bostonian, who like Richardson had become 
an adopted son of California and settled at 
Yerba Buena for the purpose of trading with 
the American vessels." 

"This must have been a lively business cen- 
ter." The man raised his voice above the 
rumble of the wagons and cars. "Two little 
houses in the midst of a sea of sand-dunes 
and no settlement nearer than the Mission." 

"Oh, it didn't take the American long to 
make things hum," I assured him. "He ar- 
rived here on July second. Two days later he 

[58] 

















" J ;-- ■■ J. -- 



A STREET IN CHINATOWN 
'We must take a look at the spot where the first house stood 



THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 
had built a house and was entertaining all the 
Spaniards from miles around, at a grand 
Fourth of July celebration." 

"Quick work even for a Yankee," laughed 
my companion. "But rather hard on his 
English neighbor, I should think. Did Rich- 
ardson attend?" 

"Of course he did! Delivered the invita- 
tions, too ! Leese was busy building his house, 
so the Englishman, in his little launch, called 
at all the ranchos and settlements about the 
bay and invited the Spaniards to come to 
Yerba Buena for a Fourth of July fandango." 
We retraced our steps and a few doors 
beyond entered the gay, balconied restaurant, 
in quest of a cup of tea served in Oriental 
style. Climbing the steep stairs, we passed 
the first floor where laborers were being 
served with steaming bowls of rice; then 
mounted to the more aristocratic level where 
we were seated at elaborately carved teak- 
wood tables, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. 
While waiting for our tea, we stepped onto 
the balcony which we had regarded with so 
much interest from the street. Above us 
hung the gorgeous lanterns, swaying like 
bright bubbles in the breeze, and below 
moved the silent blue-coated throng. 

"So there was a Fourth of July celebration 
here even in Spanish times?" said the man. 
"Somewhat prophetic of the American days 
to come, wasn't it?" 

We caught a glint of color in the street 

[59] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
and leaned far over the balcony to watch 
a violet-coated Chinese girl thread her way 
among the sombre crowd. 

"It must have been just below us that the 
early festivities were held," I suggested. 
"Leese's house was not large enough to ac- 
commodate his guests, so a big marquee sur- 
mounted by Mexican and American flags, and 
gaily decorated with bunting, was spread 
about where the street now runs. Can't you 
picture it all? The dainty little senoritas in 
their silk and satin gowns, with filmy man- 
tillas thrown over their heads and shoulders, 
and the men not less gorgeous in lace-trimmed 
velvet suits and elaborate serapes. I can 
almost hear the applause and the booming 
of the cannon that followed General Vallejo's 
glowing tribute to Washington, and see the 
graceful Spanish dancers as they assembled 
for the evening ball. It was doubtless at this 
time that Leese met General Vallejo's fascin- 
ating sister, whom he married after a short 
and business-like courtship." 

"Short, and she a Calif ornian?" He sent 
me an amused glance. 

"Perhaps Leese thought delay dangerous," 
I suggested, "for Senorita Maria Rosalia was 
one of the belles of the new military outpost 
at Sonoma and more than one gaily clad 
caballero was suing for her hand." 

"No wonder the American pushed the mat- 
ter," laughed my companion. "Did many 
Boston men marry Spanish Senoritas?" 

[60] 



THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 

"Nearly all who came to the Coast," I an- 
swered, "The California women were among 
the most fascinating in the world and held a 
peculiar charm for these sturdy New Eng- 
enders." 

"I can understand that," he said, bending 
for a better look at my face. "But what could 
the dainty seiioritas see in these crude, raw- 
boned Yankees?" 

"Just what any woman would see," I de- 
clared. "Men of sterling character, working 
against terrible odds, with that courage which 
does not know the word failure. They saw 
men of perseverance, energy and brains who 
were bringing into the country the indomit- 
able spirit of New England." 

"I am glad you have a good word for the 
early Yankees," he said, "and I wish your 
enthusiasm extended to a later generation." 
He turned toward me and I felt the tell- 
tale color sweep my cheeks as I became con- 
scious that I was thinking less of Leese and 
his compatriots than of the Bostonian at my 
side. 

"It wasn't the New England spirit," he de- 
clared, "that gave these early settlers the 
strength and determination to succeed. It 
was the women who had faith in them. A 
man can accomplish anything if the woman 
he loves — " My companion had moved close 
to my side, and his voice was low as he bent 
over me. "Little girl," he began, "last year 
in Boston when you came into my life — " 

[61] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 

The harsh jangle of a Chinese orchestra 
broke the dull murmur of the street and in 
an instant the little balcony was crowded with 
gazers eager to catch a glimpse of the mu- 
sicians through the windows opposite. 

My companion and I moved aside for the 
new comers and turned again toward the 
interior. Through the open door we could see 
the waiter placing steaming cups of tea upon 
the table we had deserted, and re-entering the 
room, we seated ourselves in the big carved 
arm-chairs. Sipping the delicious beverage, 
we glanced toward the other tables, where 
groups of Chinamen were talking in a curious 
jargon and dexterously handling the thin 
ebony chop-sticks. On the wide matting- 
covered couches extending along the side- 
walls, lounged sallow-faced Orientals, while 
in and out among the diners noiselessly 
moved the waiters, balancing on their heads, 
large brown straw trays. Snowy rice cakes, 
shreds of candied cocoanut, preserved ginger 
and brown paper-shell nuts with the usual 
Chinese eating utensils were placed before 
us. We tried the slender chop-sticks with , 
laughable failure and then, declaring that 
fingers were made first, we had no further 
trouble. We took a farewell look at the gilt 
carved screens and long banners, which in 
quaint Chinese characters wished us health 
and happiness. Then following our smiling 
attendant to the door, we were bowed down 
the stairway. A Chinaman leaned over the 
[62] 



THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 
railing and called the amount of our bill to 
the attendant on the second floor, who like 
an echo took it up and sent it on to the main 
entrance, where we settled our account. 

Again on the sidewalk, we mingled with 
the Oriental throng whose expressionless yel- 
low faces gave no hint of joy or sorrow. At 
the corner we turned east and made our way 
toward Portsmouth Square. I paused and 
let my eyes run over my companion, from his 
emaculate linen collar to his well-polished 
shoes. 

"You'll look sadly out of place here," I 
warned. "No artist would ever take such a 
well-groomed person for a model, nor would 
you be suspected of belonging to the great 
army of the unemployed." 

"Are they the only classes allowed? Then 
I speak now for the purchasing right of your 
portrait." 

"Oh, I'll pose very well as the 'Amelican' 
teacher of those little Chinese butterflies flut- 
tering after that kite. Aren't they attractive 
in their lavender, pink, and blue sahms?" I 
said, as we seated ourselves on the bench. 

" 'To be honest, to be kind, to earn a little, 
to spend a little less,' " he read from the face 
of the fountain standing against a clump of 
trees whose soft foliage drooped caressingly 
over it. "Why, that's from Stevenson's Christ- 
mas sermon. Look at that unappreciative 
brute! He drank without reading a word!" 
exclaimed the man indignantly. 

[63] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 

"Yes, but he feels the better for coming 
here. He received the refreshment most 
needed and that is what Stevenson would 
have wished. Some other may need and will 
receive the spiritual help." 

"Why is it here?" he asked. 

"Because Stevenson loved this place and 
came often to sit on the benches and study 
the wrecked and drifting lives of the men who 
lounged in the square." 

"And the gilded ship on top with its full 
blown sails — that must suggest his Treasure 
Island, doesn't it?" 

"Yes, and also the Manila Galleon, that 
splendid treasure-ship ladened with silk, wax 
and spices from the Philippines and China, 
which once each year made its landfall near 
Cape Mendocino and followed the line of the 
coast down to Mexico." 

He leaned with arm outstretched along 
the back of the bench and surveyed the park. 

"This, you said, was the old Spanish Plaza. 
What was here then?" 

"At first just a sweep of tawny sand-dunes, 
surrounded by scrub oak and chaparral." I 
dropped my eyes to the gravel walk, that I 
might shut out the emerald green lawns, and 
flowering shrubs. "Over the shifting hillocks 
wandered a little minty vine bearing a deli- 
cate white and lavender flower not unlike 
your trailing arbutus. It was from the medic- 
inal qualities of this plant that the little set- 
tlement was named Yerba Buena, the good 

[64] 




PORTSMOUTH SQUARE 
'Much of the history of San Francisco was made around this Plaza." 



THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 
herb. Over there on the northwest corner 
where that dingy Chinese restaurant now 
floats the flag of Chop Suey stood the old 
adobe Custom House, the first building erected 
on the Plaza, and it was in front of this that 
the Stars and Stripes were run up when Gen- 
eral Montgomery, who had arrived in the 
sloop-of-war Portsmouth, took possession in 
the name of the United States." 

"So that is where the square got its name — 
from the ship 'Portsmouth?' " His voice rang 
with the joy of discovery. 

"Yes, but the new name never completely 
replaced the old. We love the terms which 
come to us from Spanish days, and so, to 
many of us, this is still the Plaza." 

"I presume there was a great outcry when 
Montgomery pulled down the Mexican flag 
and ran up the American. But I understand 
the country was helpless." 

"Yes, it was poorly fortified, and the Cali- 
fornians had known for some time that Mex- 
ico was losing its hold, so the event was not 
unexpected. But there was no flag to pull 
down for the receiver of customs, realizing 
that resistance was useless, had packed the 
Mexican flag in a trunk with his official pa- 
pers for safe keeping, so without opposition 
General Montgomery marched with seventy 
men accompanied by fife and drum from the 
waterfront to the Plaza, and raised the Stars 
and Stripes on the vacant flag pole. Thus 
the country came into the possession of the 

[65] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
Americans and our historic pilgrimage is at 
an end," I concluded, rising. 

But my companion seemed loath to leave 
the place. We sauntered by dark-eyed Italian 
girls lolling on the benches, shaggy bearded 
old sailors, whose scarred faces told of fierce 
battles with the elements, and stopped to ex- 
amine the plaster casts presented for our in- 
spection by a weary-eyed street vender. At a 
distance, a laughing gypsy girl in a white 
waist and much beruffled red plaid skirt was 
enticing the crowd to cross her hand with 
silver that she might tell their fortunes. 

"What need have we for gypsies?" he de- 
manded pulling me down on a bench. "I'll 
read your palm." 

"Can you tell fortunes?" I questioned as I 
drew off my glove. 

"I can tell yours," he declared straighten- 
ing out my fingers in his big strong hand, and 
examining the lines. 

"He's a tall dark man, wearing glasses — " 
Instinctively I looked up into the uncov- 
ered brown eyes, then dropped mine in con- 
fusion as I met his laughing gaze. 

"Only when he reads," added the Bostonian, 
holding on to my fingers, as I tried to with- 
draw my hand. 

An angry voice broke the silence and we 
sprang to our feet to see an old man shaking 
his fist in the face of a young Irish policeman. 

"You let me alone!" he shouted. "You let 
me alone!" 

[66] 



THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 

For a moment the officer hesitated. Then 
he seized the old man by the collar. "Come 
along quietly! There ain't no use making a 
howl. There's a vagrancy law in this city and 
I'll show you it ain't to be sniffed at. I've 
been watching you ever since I've been on 
this beat and you ain't done nothing but sit 
around this Plaza." 

"And ain't I a right to sit 'round this 
Plaza?" The man pulled himself free and 
again defied the officer of the law with a 
clenched fist. "Didn't I help make it? When 
you were playing with a rattle in your crib 
over in Dublin, I was a-stringing up a man to 
the eaves of the old Custom House over there 
on the corner. And now you try to arrest 
me — me a Vigilante of '51 — " His fury choked 
him, and with a quick turn of the hand, the 
officer again had him by the collar. But the 
old man wrenched himself loose. 

"You keep your hands off me." He raised 
his angry voice in warning. • Then drawing a 
bundle of papers from his pocket he thrust 
them into the officer's face. "Look at that — 
and that — and that — biggest business blocks 
in San Francisco. If I choose to wear a loose 
shirt and sit 'round the Plaza it isn't any busi- 
ness of yours. In the good old days of forty- 
nine — " 

I touched the Bostonian on the arm. "Let's 
go to the Exposition," I suggested. "We've 
seen everything here." 

"There's no need to hurry! We've all the 

[67] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
afternoon before us." He edged a little closer 
to the old man, about whom a crowd was 
gathering. 

"In the good old days of forty-nine," rang 
out again and I glanced nervously at my com- 
panion. "We didn't have any dipper-dapper 
policemen making mistakes." He snapped 
his fingers in the officer's face. "We had good 
red-shirted miners who knew their business." 
The policeman moved uneasily and handed 
back the papers. "I guess they're all right," 
he acknowledged. "The law doesn't seem to 
touch you." 

"Touch me! Well, I guess not!" The offi- 
cer moved off and the old man returned to 
his bench. Before I realized my companion's 
intention, we were seated beside the miner. 
He was still muttering maledictions on the 
head of the Irish policeman. 

"The scoundrel !" He dug his stick into the 
gravel path. "Had the nerve to arrest me! 
Me, who strung up Jenkins in the first Vig- 
ilante Committee, and Casey and Cora in the 
second." 

"You must have come here in early days," 
remarked the Bostonian. 

"Early days," echoed the miner, "well, I 
guess I did. I'm a forty-niner." He straight- 
ened himself proudly and looked to see the 
effect of his words. 

"I think we had better go." Again I touched 
the Antiquary's arm but he gave no heed to 
my signal. 

[68] 



THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 

"There must have been some stirring times 
here in the days of the gold rush." 

"You bet there were," agreed the forty- 
niner, "and the entire history of San Fran- 
cisco was made around this Plaza. Here were 
built the first hotel, the first school-house, the 
first bank; within a stone's throw the first 
Protestant sermon was preached, the first 
newspaper was printed and the first post of- 
fice was opened. It was through the Plaza 
that Sam Brannan ran with a bottle of yellow 
dust in one hand, waving his hat with the 
other and shouting, 'Gold! gold! from the 
American River!' It was here that the big 
gambling houses sprang up, where fortunes 
were made and lost in a night, and here the 
first Vigilance Committee met and executed 
justice." The old man paused for breath. 

I was on the edge of the bench ready for 
flight. All my good work of the last two days 
was rapidly being undermined. I heard again 
the skeptic's contemptuous tone of yesterday. 
"It's either before the fire" or "in the good old 
days of forty-nine." 

"We — we must go," I stammered, "it's get- 
ting very late." The Bostonian looked at his 
watch. "Not three o'clock yet." He leaned 
back comfortably. "You ought to be inter- 
ested in this. Your grandfather was a forty- 
niner." 

I looked at him searchingly. I ought to 
be interested! I, who cherished every mem- 
ory of pioneer days! I, who had bitten my 

[69] " 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
lips a dozen times that afternoon, and was 
glorying in the tact and strength of mind 
which had avoided this period of our history! 
The miner, apparently aware of my pres- 
ence for the first time, sent me a piercing 
glance from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. 
"So your grandfather — " 

"He wasn't exactly a forty-niner," I ac- 
knowledged. "He arrived outside the Heads 
the night of December thirty-first but there 
was a heavy fog and the vessel didn't get 
inside until the next morning," 

"Hard luck," sympathized the old man, 
"coming near to being a forty-niner and miss- 
ing it." 

"But it's practically the same thing," per- 
sisted the Bostonian. "Only a few hours." 

"The same thing!" scornfully repeated the 
miner. "There's as much difference as be- 
tween Christmas and Fourth of July. A forty- 
niner's a forty-niner, and a man that came in 
fifty — well, he might as well have come in 
sixty or seventy, or even in the twentieth cen- 
tury, ft's the forty-niner that counts in this 
community." He drew himself up proudly. 
Then plunging his hand deep into his pocket, 
drew out a nugget. 

"Picked that up off my first claim," he ex- 
plained, "but the dirt didn't pan out so well. 
I've carried it in my pocket all these years, 
just for the sentiment of the thing, I suppose. 
Many a time I was tempted to throw it on a 
table in the El Dorado, but I hung on to it." 

[70] 



THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 

"The El Dorado?" questioned the East- 
erner. 

"Yes, one of the big gambling places here 
on the Plaza. Everybody took a chance in 
those days, even some of the preachers. You 
met all your friends there, and heard the best 
music and the latest news." 

"Did they gamble with nuggets?" my com- 
panion led the old man on. 

"Well, I guess they did! and gold dust in 
piles. The few children in town used to pan 
out the dirt of the Plaza in front of the Tem- 
ples of Chance every morning after the places 
were swept out. The Californians put up 
parts of their ranchos, too, sometimes." 

"How high did the stakes run?" Evidently 
this descendant of the Pilgrims had not lost 
all the sporting blood of his earlier English 
ancestors. 

"Often as high as five hundred or a thou- 
sand dollars. The largest stake I ever saw 
change hands was forty-five thousand. Many 
a miner went back to the placers in the spring 
without a dollar in his pockets. But every- 
body was doing it and you could almost count 
the nationalities in the crowd around the 
table by the kinds of coins in the stacks. 
There were French francs, English crowns, 
East Indian rupees, Spanish pesos and United 
States dollars. The dress was as different as 
the money. We miners wore red and blue 
shirts, slouch hats and wide belts to carry our 
dust. The Californians were gorgeous in 

[71] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
coats trimmed in gold lace, short pantaloons 
and high deer-skin boots, and the Chinese ran 
a close second in their colored brocaded silks. 
You knew the professional gamblers by their 
long black coats and white linen — real gentle- 
men, many of 'em and the most honest in the 
country. 

"Ever see a picture of the Plaza in forty- 
nine," he asked abruptly. 

"Never." 
The miner drew a square on the gravel 
path with his stick. "The El Dorado was 
here, the Veranda here and the Bella Union 
here," he said, punching holes on the three 
corners of Kearny and Washington. "They 
were the finest and they had the best loca- 
tions in town. The El Dorado paid forty 
thousand dollars a year for a tent and twenty- 
five thousand a month for a building on the 
same site later." The end of his stick deep- 
ened the hole on the southeast corner. 

My eyes wandered from the plan to the 
real location. "Why, there is the name 
'Veranda' over there now," I exclaimed as 
the black letters on a white awning caught 
my eye. 

"Yes, it is pretty near the old site, but it's 
a poor substitute for its predecessor," he 
added scornfully. "There was great style in 
those days — fine bars, lots of glass and mir- 
rors and pictures worth thousands of dollars. 
The doors were always open from eleven in 
the morning 'til daylight the next morning, 

[72] 



THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 
and a steady stream of pepole were pouring 
in and out all the time. Everybody was there. 
There weren't no special inducement to stay 
home nights, when your residence was a bunk 
on the wall of a shanty and the fellers over 
you and under you and across the room 
weren't even acquaintances. I got a pretty 
good room after awhile in the Parker House" 
— he drew a small oblong south of the El 
Dorado — "for a hundred dollars a week, but 
I didn't stay long." 

"I should think not — at that price." 

"Oh, it wasn't the price. One of my friends 
paid two hundred and fifty. But you see it 
got pretty warm at the Parker House, that 
Christmas eve, and so we all moved. They 
cleared away the hot ashes of the hotel and 
built the Jenny Lind Theatre on the spot. 
That was the first big fire. We had them right 
along after that, every few weeks. Six big 
ones in eighteen months, with lots of little 
ones in between." 

"Then the last fire wasn't a new experience 
for you," the Bostonian suggested. 

"Lord, no ! Bebuilding was a habit with us 
early San Franciscans. We didn't begin to 
feel sorry for a man 'til he'd lost everything 
he owned three times. The Jenny Lind 
Theatre went down six times and the seventh 
building was sold for the City Hall. It stood 
right there" — he pointed to the handsome 
new Hall of Justice — "until it went up in the 
last fire." 

[73] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 

"You are sure it wasn't the earthquake that 
finished it?" inquired the skeptic. 

"Certainly not," I flared. "The Relief Com- 
mittee met there that morning to lay their 
plans while the fires were raging south of 
Market Street." 

He acknowledged defeat by changing the 
subject. "Was the old Spanish Custom House 
here?" he asked, pointing to the western side 
of the diagram. 

"Yes," assented the miner, and he traced 
an oblong on the northern end, "and just be- 
hind it, on Washington Street, was Sam Bran- 
nan's house. He was the Mormon leader, you 
know, and brought a shipload of his followers 
to establish a settlement in forty-six. He pub- 
lished our first newspaper, the 'California 
Star,' in his house." 

"Was it where that little green Chinese 
building with the bracketed columns and 
turned-up eaves is?" I interposed. 

"The telephone exchange, you mean? Exact 
spot. They used to ring a hand bell in the 
Plaza on Sunday mornings to call the Mor- 
mons to hear Brannan preach in the Casa 
Grande." 

"Richardson's house!" My companion sent 
me an appreciative glance. 

"Sure, but that was before most of 'em, 
including Sam, went back on their faith. Next 
to the Custom House on the south," he con- 
tinued, "was the Public Institute. It wasn't 
much to look at — just pine boards — but it 

[74] 



THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 
was considerable useful. They held the Public 
School there and had preaching on Sundays 
'til the teacher, the preacher and all the audi- 
ence went off to the mines. They tried the 
Hounds there, too." 

"The Hounds?" my friend looked dazed. 

"Yes, the Sidney Coves that lived in Sidney- 
ville, along there on Kearny near Pacific." 
Light had failed to dawn. 

"Here on the corner of Kearny," continued 
the Forty-niner, "was an old adobe building 
with a red-tiled roof and a veranda around it." 

"The City Hotel!" I exclaimed delightedly. 

"How did you know?" He eyed me curi- 
ously. 

"My grandfather was a near-forty-niner," 
I reminded him. 

"Oh yes. Too bad! Too bad!" he added 
sympathetically. "It was the house and store 
of a fellow named Leidesdorff," he continued, 
"who did a lot of trading with the Yankee 
skippers in Mexican days, and it was turned 
into a hotel in the gold rush. It was always 
the swell place for blowouts. They had a 
big banquet and ball there for Governor 
Stockton, I'm told, after the procession and 
speeches in the Plaza, and another the next 
year for Governor Kearny; the first Relief 
Committee met here, called by Brannan, 
Howard and Vallejo, to send rescuers to the 
Sierras for the survivors of the Donner Party. 
There wasn't much of any importance in the 
way of gathering that didn't happen there." 

[75] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 

We instinctively looked across at the 
square, three-story, pressed-brick home of the 
Chinese Consulate and bank. 

"Every big fire took at least one side of the 
Plaza, and the sixth, in June of fifty-one, 
wiped out the whole square. That adobe was 
the last link between the Spanish village of 
Yerba Ruena and its American successor, San 
Francisco," he regretted, "but it was a good 
thing for the city, for they began to build with 
stone and brick after that. Did you see the 
Parrott Ruilding, as you came along, on Cali- 
fornia and Montgomery?" he asked. 

The Easterner turned to me. "You didn't 
show me that," he said, reprovingly. 

"No, why should I? It wasn't built until 
fifty-two." 

He ignored my insinuation and turned 
back to his informer. "What about the Par- 
rott Ruilding? It sounds like an aviary." 

"Not exactly," he smiled. "It was made of 
granite blocks, cut and dressed and marked 
in China and then shipped over and set up 
by the 'China Roys,' as the Orientals here 
called themselves." 

"It's a curious coincidence," I ventured, 
"that the Hong Kong Rank now occupies the 
lower floor. What a freak of the winds it 
was that swept the big fire around that and 
the Montgomery block, and left them both 
for posterity!" 

"Your fire seemed to have had a special 
veneration for historic structures," the East- 

[76] 



THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 

erner commented. "It respected the Mission 

in like manner." 

"Yes, somewhat," returned the miner, "but 
it might have had a little more respect and 
spared the Tehama House and the What 
Cheer House. I hated to see them go." 

"And the Niantic Hotel and Fort Gunny- 
bags," I added. 

"Here! Here! I rise for a point of in- 
formation," cried the alien. "Did the cheer 
inebriate and what is the technical difference 
between gunny-sacks and carpet bags?" 

"Oh, that was our Vigilance Headquarters 
of fifty-six, where we hung Casey and Cora," 
elucidated the Forty-niner. 

"Help," gasped the Bostonian, sinking upon 
the bench. 

"Tell him," I nodded to the miner. 

"The Tehama House, on the waterfront at 
California and Sansome, was the swell hotel 
for army and navy people and all the Spanish 
rancheros when they came to town. You 
couldn't keep even your thoughts to yourself 
in that house, for it had thin board sidings 
and cloth and paper partitions, but it had lots 
of style, and Rafael set a great table. They 
moved it over to Montgomery and Broadway 
to make room for the Bank of California, and 
the fire caught it there. The What Cheer 
House," the old man's eyes brightened, "was 
on Sacramento and Leidesdorff, and that's 
where we miners went, if we could get in. 
Woodward was a queer chap. Took you 

[77] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
in whether you could pay or not. But it was 
only a man's hotel. There wasn't a woman 
allowed about the place. He had the only 
library in town and everybody was welcome 
to use it. I've often seen Mark Twain and 
Bret Harte reading at the table." 

"And the sacks?" queried the Bostonian. 
But the old man had leaned back on the 
bench and his eyes wandered over the green 
grass and trees of the square. "It's much 
prettier than it used to be," he admitted, "but 
nothing happens here now. The Chinese 
children fly kites and the unemployed loaf 
on the benches and the grass, and I'm one 
of them. I wish you could have seen it in 
the early days." His eyes kindled with excite- 
ment. "It was only a barren hillside, but 
there was always something doing then. All 
the town meetings were held here in the open 
air and all the parades ended here for the 
speeches. The biggest celebration was in 
1850, when the October steamer, flying all 
her flags, brought the news that California 
was admitted to the Union. We went wild, 
for we had waited for that word for more 
than a year. Every ship in the harbor dis- 
played all her bunting and at night every 
house was as brilliant as candles and coal 
oil could make it. Bonfires blazed on all the 
hills and the islands and we had music and 
dancing all over the town 'til morning." 

He paused in reminiscence. "But it wasn't 
so gay that moonlight night, the next Feb- 

[78] 



THE PLAZA and ITS ECHOES 
ruary, when we hung Jenkins. He was a 
Sidney Cove and had just stole a safe, but 
that was the least of his crimes and of the 
whole gang. When we Vigilantes heard the 
taps on the firebell here in the Plaza, we 
gathered in front of the committee rooms. 
Nobody was excited; we just had to drive 
out the Sidney Coves and put an end to crime. 
We marched Jenkins here and hung him over 
there to the beam on the south end of the 
Custom House. Forty of us pulled on the 
rope, while a thousand more stood 'round 
as solemn as a prayer meeting to give us 
moral support and shoulder the responsi- 
bility. It wasn't no joke hanging a man, but 
it had to be done, if decent men was to live 
here." 

He shook off his depression. "Everybody 
was in the Plaza sometime in the day, and 
once a month when Telegraph Hill signaled 
a steamer, everybody was here." 

"Telegraph Hill? I never heard of it," he 
cast an accusing glance in my direction. 

"It belongs to forty-nine," I retorted. 

"All the shops closed immediately," con- 
tinued the miner, "and Postmaster Geary was 
the most important man in town. The post- 
office was a block up the hill at Clay and 
Pike Streets, but the lines from the windows 
stretched down into the Plaza, and over 
among the tents and chaparral on California 
Street Hill. Men stood for hours, sometimes 
all night, in the pouring rain, and many a 

[79] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
time I sold my place for ten dollars, and even 
twenty, to some fellow who had less patience 
or less time than I. 

"But you should have been here on election 
day in fifty-one. The miner threw back his 
head and laughed aloud. "Colonel Jack 
Hays was running for sheriff," he resumed, 
"and his opponent hired a band to play in 
front of his store here on the Plaza as an ad- 
vertisement. It worked fine ! He was polling 
all the votes and the Colonel was about out of 
the running, 'til he got on his horse that he'd 
used on the Texas ranges and came cavorting 
into the square. He showed 'em some fancy 
turns they weren't used to and kept it up 'til 
the polls closed. 

"Did he win?" I asked excitedly. 

"Well, I guess he did! Hands down. But 
a sheriff ain't no use when the laws won't 
stick. That's why we had to have the Vigil- 
ance Committees. 

I arose. That was a long story and the 
afternoon was fast going. My companion 
took the hint. He extended his hand and 
grasped the old miner's heartily. 

"I thank you," he said, "you have opened 
up a new epoch to me and I shall not soon 
forget you. I shall come again and the place 
will have lost much of its interest if you are 
not here." 

"Oh, I'll be here," laughed the old fellow. 
"It's home to me." 

[80] 



TELEGRAPH HILL 

THE LATIN QUARTER. THE SIGNAL 

STATION OF '49 AND A VIEW OF THE CITY AS IT WAS. 

THE GOLDEN GATE 




TELEGRAPH HILL 0/ unique fame 

ould you like to go up 'crazy 
owld, daisy owld Telegraft 
Hill,' " I asked in a softened 
mood as we moved away. 
"There is just about time." 

"Indeed I should," he an- 
swered. "Can we take in some 
of the other things you archae- 
ologists were mentioning on the way? I don't 
want to miss anything." 

"We must leave the Parrott and Niantic 
buildings until some other day, but you can 
see the Montgomery Block if you wish," and 
we turned down Washington Street. "It was 
built on piles, by General Halleck's law firm. 
William Tecumseh Sherman's bank was 
nearby, but I suppose most of Boston's busi- 
ness men were generals-in-chief of the United 
States Army." 

My irony was ignored and as we reached 
the corner of Montgomery, I continued: "It 
was on this spot that James King of William, 
editor of the 'Bulletin,' was shot down by 
James P. Casey, the ballot-box stuffer. The 
newspaper office was at the other end of the 
block on Merchant Alley, and that evening's 
editorial accused Casey of electing himself 
supervisor and stated that he was an ex- 
convict from Sing Sing. Within an hour after 
the paper appeared, Mr. King was carried 
dying to his room in the same building. It 
was this murder that brought the second 

[83] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
Vigilance Committee into existence. While 
the immense funeral cortege, the largest San 
Francisco has ever known, escorted the body 
of Mr. King up this street toward Lone 
Mountain Cemetery, Casey and Cora, another 
criminal, were hung in front of the Vigilance 
Headquarters on Sacramento near Front." 

"You called it Fort Gunnybags?" he queried. 

"Yes, it was so named from the precaution- 
ary bulwark of sand-filled sacks piled* up in 
a hollow square in front to protect the en- 
trance. A bronze plate marked the old build- 
ing before the fire." 

We turned into Columbus Avenue. "Your 
beloved Stevenson used to live at No. 8, there 
on the gore where the Italian Rank is," I said. 
"We are coming to the Latin Quarter, a sec- 
tion that has always been given over to 
foreigners, for in early days 'Sidneyville,' 
peopled by ticket-of-leave men from the 
penal colony of Australia, and 'Little Chile' of 
the Peruvians and Chileans, clustered close 
around the base of Telegraph Hill." 

"The very place Stevenson would choose, 
where life was flavored with history and the, 
mystery of the foreign. Rut where are you 
going?" he exclaimed, stopping short as I 
began to ascend the steps by which Kearny 
Street climbs the hill. 

"I thought you wished to see the site of 
the Marine Signal Station." I looked down 
at him from the fourth stair with feigned 
surprise. 

[84] 



TELEGRAPH HILL of UNIQUE FAME 

"I do, indeed, but can't we go up by a 
funicular and come down this way?" he com- 
promised. "My Boston calves protest." 

"Oh well, we can go by the level a little 
farther, but I thought you liked the 'flavor 
of the foreign.' Anyway, we ought to see Earl 
Cummings' old man," I remembered. 

"What is his fatherland and his business?" 
he asked as his eye traveled over the shop 
signs — "Sanguinetti, Farmacia Italiana," 
"Molinari & Cariani, Grocers;" "Oliva & Briz- 
zolara, Real Estate." 

"His birthplace is the World Universal, and 
his profession — leading us back to nature," 
I answered. Then, as we passed the spick 
and span concrete facade of the Patronal 
Church of St. Francis, with its rear of burned 
brick: "This is the direct descendent of the 
old Mission," I told him, "the first Parish 
Church of San Francisco. It was gutted by 
the fire and is being very gradually restored. 
A notice within administers an implied re- 
buke: 'The First Erected— the Last Re- 
stored.' " 

We paused at the iron fence of the small 
green triangle cut off from Washington 
Square by the slant of Columbus Avenue, and 
peered at the fine bronze figure of a sinewy 
old man stooping to drink from his hand on 
the edge of the little pool. 

"Mr. Cummings' message to his universal 
brothers," he commented. "None could fail 
to be refreshed by it. My strength is renewed. 

[85] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
Let us ascend," and he turned up Filbert 
Street. 

Dark-eyed women lounged in the door- 
ways of the houses that cling to the perpen- 
dicular sides of the hill. "The Italian per- 
vades," I volunteered, "but there are Greeks, 
Sicilians, Spaniards and French." The whole 
was reminiscent of the South of Europe, but 
the Neapolitan scene of cleated walks and 
steep steps lacked the enlivening color notes 
of the homeland. 

"Not even a red shirt on a clothes line," I 
regretted, but a flood of soft voweled Italian 
from a woman in a third story window, mu- 
sically answered by a man in the street below, 
brought consolation. 

"The opera's own tongue," the Bostonian 
commented. 

"Well, you leave it to me," finished the 
man in the street. 

"Sure, Mike, I will," responded the woman. 
My companion halted in consternation. 

"We make American citizens of them all," 
I asserted. 

"Les petits enfants aussi," I added as a child 
ran past, shouting a response in irreproach- 
able English to the Parisian command of her 
mother. 

We turned through the rude stone wall 
into Pioneer Park and along the unkept paths 
shaded by eucalyptus, cypress and acacia 
trees and came upon the open height where 
the mountain-hemmed bay lay in broad ex- 

[•86] 




A FOUNTAIN IN THE LATIN QUARTER 
"Stooping to drink from his hand on the edge of a little pool." 



TELEGRAPH HILL of UNIQUE FAME 
panse before us, dotted with islands and with 
ferries streaking their way across its blue- 
gray surface. 

"Wonderful," he exclaimed under his 
breath. 

" '0, Telegraft Hill, she sits proud as a Queen, 
And th' docks lie below in th' glare/ " 
I quoted from Wallace Irwin. 

He lowered his gaze to the numerous 
wharves running out into the water, with 
teams appearing and disappearing at the en- 
trances of the covered docks, like lines of 
busy ants. 

" 'And th' bay runs beyant her, all purple and green 
Wid th' gingerbread island out there,' " 
I continued the quotation. 

"What are those terraced buildings?" he 
queried. 

"It has been the military prison for years. 
It is Alcatraz Island." 
He looked his inquiry. 

"Spanish for Pelican," I answered, seating 
myself on a rock. "Ayala, the captain of the 
'San Carlos,' the first ship to enter the bay, 
named it from the large number of the birds 
he found on it, and the big island to the right 
that looks like a portion of the main land 
is Angel Island, abbreviated from Ayala's Isla 
de Nuestra Senora de los Angeles." 

"And Goat Island?" he questioned as he 
threw himself down on the grass. 

"Yerba Buena," I corrected. "The other 
name was colloquially applied when Nathan 

[87] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
Spear, being given some goats and kids by a 
Yankee skipper, put them over there. There 
were several thousand on the island in forty- 
nine, but the Americans killed them all off 
by night in spite of Spear's protests." 

"Not all of them," he denied as he shied 
a stick at a white head reaching from below 
for a grassy clump. 

" 'And th' goats and chicks and brickbats and sticks 

Is joombled all over the face of it, 

Av Telegraft Hill, Telegraft Hill, 

Crazy owld, daisy owld Telegraft Hill,' " 

I laughed. 

"I suppose the Spaniards must have had a 
name for this sightly hill," said the Bostonian, 
his eye tracing the rugged skyline across the 
bay, along the Tamalpais Range on the north, 
and the San Antonio Hills on the east. 

"Yes, Anza christened it in 1776 when he 
climbed up here for a view after selecting the 
sites for the Presidio and the Mission. He 
called it La Loma Alta, and the High Hill it 
remained until the Americans put it to com- 
mercial use in forty-nine. The little town on 
the edge of the cove in the hollow of the hills, 
was unconscious of a ship entering the harbor 
until she rounded Clark's Point, the south- 
east corner of this hill, and dropped anchor 
in full view — " 

"Any relation to Champ?" he interrupted. 

"No, Clark was a Mormon, although he 
afterward denied it, who had built a wharf 
in the deep water along the precipitous bluff, 

[88] 



TELEGRAPH HILL of UNIQUE FAME 
where ships could always disembark even 
when the ebb-tide uncovered mud-flats else- 
where along the shore of the cove. 

"The American miners and merchants, 
eager for the earliest news of the approaching 
mails and merchandise, erected a signal sta- 
tion on the top of Loma Alta, about where 
that flag-pole is. When a vessel was seen 
entering the Golden Gate, the black arms of 
the semaphore on top of the building were 
raised in varying positions indicating to the 
watching town below, where every one knew 
the signals, whether it was a bark, a brig, a 
steamer or other kind of craft. This was the 
first wireless station on the coast. 

"There comes a side-wheeler," I exclaimed, 
raising my arms upward in a slanting posi- 
tion, as a big liner from Yokohama entered 
the channel. "Now fancy every office and 
bank closed, every law-court adjourned, every 
gaming table deserted; the shore black with 
people and long lines forming from the post- 
office windows to await the anchoring of the 
vessel, the landing of friends and freight, and 
the sorting of the mail by Postmaster Geary." 
My companion made a telescope of his 
two hands and examined the Nippon Maru. 
"You are discharged for inefficiency," he said. 
"You are reporting a side-wheeler for a 
screw-propeller." 

"There is no signal in the code for such 
modern inventions," I retorted. "I suppose 
the fog of your practical realism is too ob- 

[89] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
scuring for you to see that clipper just com- 
ing in," I continued, as a full-rigged ship 
spread its filled sails against the glowing sky 
of the late afternoon. 

"The lady is a bit sarcastic, Billy," he ad- 
dressed the goat, "but we'll examine it. Then 
peering through his telescoped hands again, 
"It's the clipper ship Eclipse," he announced, 
"built especially for speed, in the exigencies 
of the San Francisco trade, with long, narrow 
hull, and carrying an extra amount of can- 
vas. She has made the trip from New York 
in three-quarters of the time required by any 
other kind of craft, and demands, therefore, 
nearly double the price for freight." He 
looked at me for approval. 

"What a whetstone for the imagination the 
business sense is!" I commented. "Perhaps 
if your grandfather owned shares in the 
Eclipse, you will be able to see the second 
signal station erected the next year on Point 
Lobos, just beyond the Fort. From there a 
vessel could be decried many miles outside 
the Heads and the signal repeated by the sta- 
tion here on Telegraph Hill, relieved the in- 
habitants of several more hours of anxiety." 

"Anxiety is a mild term if one couldn't hear 
for a whole month from the girl who had his 
heart," he commented. "It's bad enough 
when she won't write, even with a telegraph 
and railroad between." He was tracing some 
characters in the ground at my feet, with a 
stick. "Thirty-four days," I made out. 

[90] 



TELEGRAPH HILL of UNIQUE FAME 

"If you've sufficiently recovered from the 
climb, shall we see how the city looks from 
up here?" I asked. 

For answer he sprang up and assisted me 
to my feet. We walked to the opposite side 
of the park, where the city lay extended be- 
fore us. 

"Imagine a forest of masts here in the bay, 
about seven or eight hundred; the water lav- 
ing Montgomery Street beyond the Merchants' 
Exchange — that yellow brick building with 
the little arched cupola; and wharves running 
out from every street to reach the ships lying 
in deep water, every one swarming with teams 
and men hurrying to and fro. Connect them 
with piled walks over the water on the lines 
of Sansome and Battery Streets and you have 
a picture of Yerba Buena Gove in forty-nine. 
Heap up freight and baggage on the shore, 
erect thousands of tents on the sand dunes 
around the edges of a town of shanties and 
adobes climbing over the hills and you have 
our miner's metropolis," I sketched for him. 

"I see it," he said, shutting his eyes. "Now 
a wave of the magic wand and the scene is 
changed." He opened them again. 

"The magic wand is a steam-paddy, work- 
ing day and night leveling off the sand-hills 
and shoveling them into the bay. The 
wharves are converted into streets and many 
good ships, whose crews having deserted for 
the mines, being pulled up and used as storage 
ships, are caught by the rising tide of sand 

[91] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
and converted into foundations for buildings. 
Such was the 'Niantic' at Clay and Sansome." 

"Oh yes, the 'Niantic !'" 

"The third building on the site still retains 
the name." 

"What was the case of assault that gave 
the belligerent name to Battery Street?" 

"It was a precaution against assault," I cor- 
rected. "Captain Montgomery erected a forti- 
fication of five confiscated Spanish guns on 
the side of this hill overlooking the harbor 
after he had taken possession of the Mexican 
town. It was known as Fort Montgomery, or 
the Battery. It was on the bluff just where 
Battery Street joins the Embarcadero down 
there, for the hill came out to that point." 

"Did the earthquake shake it down?" His 
question was tinged with triumph. 

I crushed him with a look. "The ships 
that came loaded with freight and passengers 
took it away with them as ballast," I ex- 
plained, "and of recent years some con- 
tractors blasted it off and paved streets with 
it until it was rescued from further demolition 
by some appreciative landmark lovers of a 
women's club." 

"What a fortunate interference! But the 
despoilers got a good slice of it, didn't they? 
There wouldn't have been much of it left in 
a few years." 

"No more than there is of Rincon Hill, over 
there at the southern corner of Yerba Buena 
Cove." I was considerably mollified by his 

[92] 




SUNSET THROUGH THE GOLDEN GATE 
'The last rays gilded the cliffs on either side." 



TELEGRAPH HILL of UNIQUE FAME 
appreciation. "It was the best residence 
quarter of the fifties, but the 'unkindest cut' 
of Second Street, which brought no good to 
anyone, not even its commercial promoters, 
left it a place of the 'butt ends of streets,' as 
Stevenson says, and inaccessible, square- 
edged, perpendicular lots whose only value 
lies buried underneath them. I fear its scars 
can never be remedied." 

"You have several hills left," he consoled 
me as his eye traveled along the broken west- 
ern skyline. "What is their role in this his- 
toric drama?" 

"The ridge running down the peninsula is 
the San Miguel Range, crowned by Twin 
Peaks, with the Mission at its foot. Nob Hill, 
next, acquired its name in the sixties, when 
the bonanza and railroad kings erected their 
residences there. Before the fire" — I felt my 
color rising, but there was no shade of change 
in my companion's expression — "the man- 
sions of the 'Big Four' of the Central Pacific 
— Huntington, Hopkins, Stanford and Crocker 
— and the Comstock millionaires — Flood, 
Fair and others — filled with magnificent 
works of craftsmen and artists, had more 
than local fame." 

"From this distance, with three of the larg- 
est buildings in the city, the hill hardly seems 
to have fallen from its high estate," he ob- 
served. 

"You are quite right. It still lives up to 
its name, for the Fairmont Hotel and the 

[93] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 
Stanford Apartments, christened for two of 
its former magnates, and the brown-stone 
Flood mansion, remodeled for the Pacific- 
Union Club, are no whit less nobby than their 
predecessors." 

"The next hill?" He turned his gaze to 
the houses perched on the top and clinging 
part way down its steep sides. 

"A little graveyard where the Russian gold- 
seekers were laid to rest gave its name. It 
is now the home of the artists and the 
artistic." 

"A city built on the water and the hills, 
and rebuilt on the ashes of seven fires," he 
commented. "It is almost incomprehensible." 
After a moment's pause: "How much of the 
city was burned by the last fire?" 

I glanced sharply at him. There was no 
shade of irony in his tone and his face showed 
only sincerity. 

"All that you can see, from the fringe of 
wharves at the waterfront to the top of the 
hills and down into the valley beyond, except 
these houses here at our feet, saved by the 
Italians with wine-soaked blankets, and a few 
on the heights of Russian Hill." 

"It was colossal !" he exclaimed. "Think of 
it! a whole city wiped out." I lowered my 
eyes to the goat nibbling beside us. "The 
courage and energy that rebuilt it is hercu- 
lean." His enthusiasm was cumulative. "And 
rebuilt it in practically three years! No 
wonder you date all things from the fire." 

[94] 



TELEGRAPH HILL of UNIQUE FAME 

Billy flickered his tail and solemnly 
winked at me. 

"It is getting late," I said, "but the sun is 
just setting. Shall we watch it Before we go?" 
Without speaking, he followed me back 
to our first point of view. The crimson ball 
was sinking into the sea, with its Midas touch 
turning the water and sky to molten gold. 
The last rays gilded the cliffs on either side 
of the entrance to the bay, and burnished the 
heads of the nodding poppies at our feet. 
From the Presidio came the muffled boom of 
the sunset gun. 

"Could Fremont have chosen a better 
name?" exclaimed the man at my side. "The 
Golden Gate it is, indeed!" 

"It certainly is well named," I agreed, "for 
everyone can interpret its meaning accord- 
ing to his mood and character. Some see 
only what Fremont saw, an open door to com- 
merce; to others it is the entrance to hoards 
of gold, stowed away in hills and streams; 
to the poet it speaks of the golden poppies 
that streak the hillsides, but I like to think 
of it as did the Indians, who called it 'Yulupa,' 
the Sunset Strait" 

Silently we watched the lights of the city 
come out, one by one, until it seemed as if 
the heavens lay beneath us. 

"I hoped when I left Boston that you would 
return with me," he said gently, "but I can't 
ask you to leave this. I didn't understand 
then, but now — " 

[95] 



THE LURE of SAN FRANCISCO 

The lights became blurred and the night 
seemed suddenly to have grown cold. 
"Of course, you couldn't be happy — " 

The voice did not sound like his. I had 
been in a dream for two days. I had thought 
he cared just as I did, but he couldn't, or he 
would realize that nothing counted but — I 
bit my lips to keep from crying out. 

"Boston is too cold for a girl with the 
warmth of California in her heart." 

Cold! Didn't he know that life with him 
would make an iceberg paradise? Didn't he 
realize — ? But, of course, he didn't care as 
I did ! This was only a subterfuge. I straight- 
ened proudly. 

"I can't ask you to go back with me," he 
was saying, "but I can stay here with you." 
His hand crept over mine. "Our business 
needs a manager on this coast. Will you help 
me make a home in San Francisco, dear?" 

Below, the lights of the city danced with 
happiness and a glad new song rang in my 
heart. 



[96] 



HERE ENDS THE LURE OF SAN FRANCISCO. 
A ROMANCE AMID OLD LANDMARKS WRIT- 
TEN BY ELIZABETH GRAY POTTER AND 
MABEL THAYER GRAY AND ILLUSTRATED 
FROM SKETCHES IN CHARCOAL BY AUDLEY 
B. WELLS. DONE INTO A BOOK BY PAUL 
ELDER AND COMPANY AT THEIR TOMOYE 
PRESS IN SAN FRANCISCO UNDER THE SUPER- 
VISION AND CARE OF H. A. FUNKE, IN JULY, 
NINETEEN HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN 






